REPRESENTATIVE 
SOUTHERN  POETS 


GHARLES-W-HUBNER 


3). 


D:  B:  FIELDS 
Private  Librarv 

MAR  1  2  1909 


REPRESENTATIVE  SOUTHERN 
POETS 


Representative 

Southern 

Poets 

BY 

CHARLES  W.  HUBNER 


Author  of  "Historical Souvenirs  of  Luther,"  "Modern 

Communism,"  "'Poems  and  Essays," 

' "War  <Poets  of  the  South" 


NEW  YORK  AND  WASHINGTON 
THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

J906 


Copyright,   J906 
By  The  Neale  Publishing  Company 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 


Permission  to  quote  copyrighted  poems  in 
this  volume  was  courteously  granted  by  the  fol 
lowing  publishers:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 
New  York;  B.  F.  Johnson  Publishing  Com 
pany,  Richmond,  Va. ;  P.  F.  Kennedy,  New 
York;  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston;  Mrs. 
Janey  Hope  Marr,  Lexington,  Va. ;  Mrs.  R.  N. 
Ticknor,  Columbus,  Ga.  The  author  also  grate 
fully  acknowledges  special  courtesies  received 
from  Mrs.  Sidney  Lanier,  Mrs.  Janey  Hope 
Marr,  Mr.  Clifford  Lanier,  Mr.  William  H. 
Hayne,  Dr.  George  J.  Preston,  and  Mr.  Joel 
Benton,  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.,  author  of  "In  the 

Poe  Circle." 

C.  W.  H. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Sidney  Lanier 15 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 55 

Henry  Timrod 83 

Abram  Joseph  Ryan 106 

James  Barron  Hope 120 

Francis  Orrery  Ticknor 136 

Margaret  Junkin  Preston 148 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney 166 

Thomas  Holley  Olivers 177 

Poe  and  Some  of  His  Critics 194 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

-.  SB.  Sudd*,  Jli 


PORTRAITS  FACING  PAGES 

Sidney  Lanier !5 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 55 

Henry  Timrod 83 

Abram  Joseph  Ryan 106 

James  Barren  Hope 120 

Margaret  Junkin  Preston 148 

Thomas  Holley  Chivers 177 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 194 


INTRODUCTORY 

! 

To  the  scholarly  and  philosophic  mind  of  Dr. 
Samuel  Johnson  we  owe  the  wise  saying  that 
"the  chief  glory  of  every  people  arises  from  its 
authors."  Of  course  he  meant  authors  whose 
works  represent,  and  are  genuine  and  direct 
forces  in,  the  development  and  conservation  of 
ethical  and  intellectual  virtues  in  the  world ;  he 
referred  to  writers  who  help  civilization  in  the 
achievement  of  whatever  is  best,  truest,  and 
most  beautiful  that  the  hand  of  man  can  give 
form  to,  or  the  soul  can  reach  and  transmute 
out  of  the  Ideal  into  the  Real. 

Nothing  can  be  of  higher  value  or  worthier 
of  praise  and  admiration  than  the  power  and 
majesty  of  thought,  vitalized  by  wisdom  from 
heavenly  sources  and  glowing  with  the  inspira 
tion  of  genius. 

Thoughts,  finding  expression  in  words  ar 
ranged  in  harmonious  order,  embellished  with 
the  graces  of  language,  and  permanently  em 
bodied  in  the  form  of  books,  are  things  that  do 
not  die.  They  transmit  themselves  from  age 
to  age,  and  posterity  prizes  them  as  a  heritage  of 
inestimable  worth. 


12       .  Introductory 

"Books,"  says  Mrs.  Browning,  "are 

"The  only  men 
That  speak  aloud  for  future  times  to  hear." 

To  the  poets  of  a  people,  representing,  as 
they  do,  the  Queen  of  the  Muses,  and  artists 
whose  work  embodies  the  highest  possible  man 
ifestations  of  the  powers  of  the  human  intellect, 
special  honor  should  be  given  for  their  contri 
butions  to  what  constitutes,  as  Dr.  Johnson 
has  said,  the  chief  glory  of  a  people. 

In  the  matter  of  literary  achievements  Amer 
icans  have  good  reason  to  feel  proud  of  their 
standing  among  modern  nations.  The  best 
works  of  our  poets  have  received  the  seal  of 
the  world's  recognition  and  admiration,  and  a 
permanent  place  has  been  set  aside  for  them  in 
the  world's  literature. 

Without  catering  to  local  or  sectional  feel 
ings,  we  of  the  South  can  claim  a  large  share 
of  this  general  recognition  and  praise  in  behalf 
of  our  own  poets  and  song-writers.  Our  galaxy 
of  poets  is,  comparatively  speaking,  small  in 
point  of  number,  but  the  light  it  sheds  is  not 
inferior,  in  the  matter  of  brilliancy,  to  the  larger 
galaxies  of  the  North  or  of  England.  Let  us 
twine  the  laurel  garland  around  the  names  of 
our  native  singers,  nor  be  afraid  of  incurring 
thereby  the  deprecatory  censure  of  critics,  native 
or  foreign. 


Introductory  13 

We  should  make  it  our  duty  to  study  the 
lives  and  works  of  these  poets  of  the  South; 
get  into  intellectual  touch  with  them;  feel  the 
influence  of  their  inspirations,  and  thus  place 
ourselves  in  a  position  to  speak  intelligently  of 
them,  and  honor  them  properly  because  of  our 
knowledge  of  them  and  their  works.  This 
purpose  has  animated  me  in  the  following  work, 
and  if  it  shall  attain  even  a  very  moderate  suc 
cess  in  this  direction,  the  author  will  feel  him 
self  amply  rewarded  for  his  labor. 


FACING     PAGE     15 


SIDNEY  LANIER 

You  hold  a  prism  to  your  uplifted  eye, 

And  let  the  Sun-god's  lances  pierce  it  through, 

Sudden  what  splendors  are  revealed  to  you, 

What  wondrous  blending  colors  you  descry, 

And  scores  of  rainbows  seem  to  span  the  sky ! 

The  common  things  of  earth  fade  from  the  view, 

A  world,  in  Eden  glory  robed  anew 

By  God's  own  hand  before  you  seems  to  lie ; 

To  me  this  types  the  glorifying  powers 

Of  thy  pure  verse,  O  crystal-souled  Lanier ! 

Thy  pen  for  Truth  did  holy  warfare  wage, 

Ithuriel's  spear  it  was,  but  wreathed  with  flowers; 

Thy  virgin  muse  recalls  Art's  golden  age, 

Its  music  in  thy  classic  song  we  hear. 

Sidney  Lanier  was  born  in  Macon,  Georgia, 
on  the  third  day  of  February,  1842.  On  his 
father's  side  he  was  of  French  and  on  his 
mother's  of  Scotch  descent.  His  father  was  a 
prominent  lawyer,  a  man  of  fine  ability  and 
excellent  character.  The  poet's  mother  was  a 
woman  remarkable  for  her  many  accomplish 
ments,  her  strong  character,  and  her  refined  and 
amiable  disposition.  Through  a  long  line  of 
distinguished  ancestors  we  find  fruiting  and 
flowering  in  the  poet  the  commingling  elements 
of  two  of  the  noblest  races  on  earth ;  the  grace, 
the  chivalry,  the  refinement,  the  brilliancy  of 


16          Representative  Southern  Poets 

the  French,  combining  with  the  sturdy  inde 
pendence,  the  deep  spirituality,  the  clear  sense 
and  stern  patriotism  of  the  Scotch. 

At  a  very  early  age  the  boy  developed  a  pas 
sionate  fondness  for  music,  and  learned  to  play 
several  instruments.  As  his  predominating 
musical  gift  constitutes  such  an  important  ele 
ment  of  Lanier's  artistic  nature,  it  is  interesting 
to  trace  this  peculiar  development  to  its  distant 
hereditary  source.  It  was  transmitted  to  him 
from  an  ancestry  distinguished  for  genius  in 
music.  One  of  his  ancestors,  Jerome  Lanier, 
a  Huguenot  refugee,  was  a  composer  of  music 
at  the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  successive 
Laniers  were  prominent  musicians  at  the  courts 
of  James  I,  Charles  I,  and  Charles  II.  A  recent 
reviewer  of  Lanier's  poetry  very  aptly  empha 
sizes  the  fact  of  hereditary  transmission  of 
artistic  genius,  as  illustrated  in  Lanier's  case ;  he 
says  that  there  can  be  few  more  romantic  in 
stances  of  the  transmission  of  tastes  and  faculty 
than  this  reincarnation  of  Stuart  music  in  a  boy 
born  at  Macon,  Georgia,  in  1842. 

While,  as  already  stated,  Lanier  was  skilful 
on  several  musical  instruments,  he  devoted  him 
self  finally  to  the  flute,  his  father  having  ex 
pressed  a  wish  to  that  effect;  his  father  was 
afraid  of  the  fascination  which  the  violin  had 
for  his  son.  Other  relatives  and  friends  were 
likewise  somewhat  alarmed  at  the  young  man's 
profound  passion  for  music,  the  exercise  of 


Sidney  Lanier  17 

which  induced  a  kind  of  ecstasy  or  trance,  and 
the  reaction  from  which  was  accompanied  by 
great  nervous  exhaustion.  Referring  to  this  a 
recent  writer  says,  "That  ecstasy  so  feared  by 
his  friends,  is  the  very  quality  of  highest  value 
in  Lanier' s  poetry."  He  was  a  master  of  the 
flute,  through  it  he  voiced  the  otherwise  unutter 
able  inspirations  of  his  soul ;  it  was  the  voice  of 
the  nightingale  that  lived  in  his  heart,  and  the 
expression  of  his  face  while  playing  was  one  of 
intense  rapture,  as  if  he  were  listening  to  the 
songs  of  angels. 

When  fourteen  years  old  he  entered  Ogle- 
thorpe  College,  at  Midway,  Georgia,  and  he 
graduated  with  honor  at  eighteen.  While  at 
college  young  Lanier  was  greatly  troubled  in 
mind  as  to  what  his  life-work  should  be. 
Although  passionately  fond  of  music,  which  held 
him  in  its  thrall  a  willing  captive,  and  notwith 
standing  the  fact  that  he  felt  himself  competent 
to  become  a  distinguished  player  and  composer, 
yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  believe  that 
he  was  born  to  be  a  musician,  "because,"  as  he 
says,  "it  seems  so  small  a  business  in  compari 
son  with  other  things  which  it  seems  to  me  I 
might  do."  So  music  and  poetry  struggled  in 
his  young  breast  for  the  mastery,  poetry  finally 
gaining  the  victory,  by  consenting  to  concede 
to  her  lovely  opponent  the  right  to  divide  the 
divine  afflatus  between  them.  Consequently 
Lanier's  verse  was  inspired  by  a  double  power — 
music  and  poetry — as  it  should  be. 


18          Representative  Southern  Poets 

The  fact  has  not  been  so  prominently  set 
forth  in  the  various  biographies  of  the  poet  as 
it  deserves  to  be,  that  he  was  famous  while  in 
college  for  his  excellence  in  mathematics.  He 
was  a  master  in  this  abstruse  science.  His 
logical  and  imaginative  faculties  developed 
themselves  in  beautiful  harmony.  In  him  the 
poet  and  the  philosopher  found  their  natural 
affinity. 

It  is  also  related  of  him  that  while  in  college 
he  was  the  soul  of  good  nature,  jovial  and  viva 
cious,  a  favorite  among  his  mates,  who  loved 
and  admired  him  on  account  of  his  cheerful 
disposition  and  his  modest  and  unassuming 
bearing. 

When  he  had  graduated  he  became  a  teacher 
in  this  college,  remaining  there  until  the  be 
ginning  of  the  war  between  the  States.  In 
April,  1 86 1,  he  entered  the  Confederate  Army 
as  a  private,  and  served  to  the  close  of  the  war. 
After  the  battle  of  Malvern  Hill  he  was  trans 
ferred  to  the  Signal  Service,  and  while  in  charge 
of  a  vessel  that  ran  the  blockade  he  was  captured 
and  imprisoned  at  Point  Lookout.  Finally, 
having  suffered  the  hardships  of  prison  life  for 
more  than  five  months,  he  was  exchanged.  He 
refers  to  his  experiences  in  the  army  in  his 
novel  entitled  "Tiger  Lilies,"  published  in  1867. 
For  some  time  after  the  war  he  was  employed 
as  a  clerk  in  a  hotel  in  Montgomery,  Alabama, 
and  then  took  charge  of  a  small  academy  at 


Sidney  Lanier  19 

Prattville,  in  the  same  State.  In  December, 
1867,  he  married  Miss  Mary  Day,  of  Macon, 
Georgia. 

In  January,  1868,  symptoms  of  consumption 
— the  dreadful  disease  from  the  effects  of 
which  he  died  September  7,  1881 — manifested 
themselves  in  serious  form,  and  he  moved  to 
Macon.  He  remained  in  his  native  city, 
studying  and  practicing  law  with  his  father, 
until  1872.  In  that  year  he  went  to  San  An 
tonio,  Texas,  for  the  benefit  of  his  health, 
remaining  in  that  delightful  climate  for  some 
time.  In  the  autumn  of  1873  ne  became  a  resi 
dent  of  Baltimore,  Maryland,  having  accepted 
an  engagement  to  play  in  the  Peabody  Sym 
phony  Concerts.  But  his  health  did  not  im 
prove,  although  he  made  frequent  trips  to 
various  parts  of  the  country,  hoping  that  change 
of  climate  would  benefit  him. 

In  the  following  year  his  masterly  poem 
entitled  "Corn"  appeared  in  the  Lippincott 
Magazine.  It  is  a  thoughtful  and  beautiful 
poem.  Out  of  this  simple  and  apparently  com 
monplace  subject,  which  one  would  scarcely 
imagine  to  be  fit  for  poetic  inspiration,  the 
genius  of  Lanier  has  made  a  perfect  and  pre 
cious  thing.  A  few  extracts  will  suffice  to  indi 
cate  the  grace  and  power  of  this  poem.  Wander 
ing  to  the  zig-zag  cornered  fence,  to  look  out 


20          Representative  Southern  Poets 

upon  the  "army  of  the  corn"  beyond,  the  poet's 
eyes  take  in  harvests  of 

"inward  dignities, 
And  large  benignities  and  insights  wise" ; 

he  sees  and  describes  how 

"one  tall  captain  stands 
Advanced  beyond  the  foremost  of  his  bands," 

and  who 

"waves  his  blades  upon  the  very  edge 
And  hottest  thicket  of  the  battling  hedge." 

This  lustrous  stalk  the  poet  addresses  as  fol 
lows  : 

"Thou  shalt  type  the  poet's  soul  sublime, 
That  leads  the  vanward  of  his  timid  time, 
And  sings  up  cowards  with  commanding  rhyme — 
Soul-calm,  like  thee,  yet  fain,  like  thee,  to  grow 
By  double  increment,  above,  below ; 
Soul-homely  as  thou  art,  yet  rich  in  grace,  like  thee 
Teaching  the  yeomen  selfless  chivalry, 
That  moves  in  gentle  curves  of  courtesy ; 
Soul-filled,  like  thy  long  veins,  with  sweetness  tense, 

By  every  god-like  sense 
Transmuted  from  the  four  wild  elements, 

Drawn  to  high  plans, 

Thou  lif'st  more  stature  than  a  mortal  man's, 
Yet  ever  piercest  downward  in  the  mould, 

And  keepest  hold 
Upon  the  reverent  and  steadfast  earth, 

That  gave  thee  birth. 
Yea,  standest  smiling  in  thy  very  grave, 

Serene  and  brave, 

With  unremitting  breath 

Inhaling  life  from  death, 
Thine  epitaph  writ  fair  in  fruitage  eloquent, 

Thy  living  self  thy  monument." 


Sidney  Lanier  21 

The  poet,  in  sweet  and  lofty  philosophy  con 
tinues  his  similes,  comparing  the  elements  of 
his  stalwart  and  lustrous  corn-stalk  with  the 
nature  and  the  work  of  the  true  poet.  Then, 
with  rapid  and  masterly  touches,  he  paints  a 
picture  of  a  deserted  Georgia  farm  and  describes 
the  woeful  circumstances  which  force  the  far 
mer  to  forsake  the  old  homestead,  after  having 
vainly  chased  the  rainbow  of  wealth,  which  he 
imagines  can  be  grasped  by  abandoning  the 
cultivation  of  corn  for  speculative  crops  of  cot 
ton.  The  exposition  which  the  poet  gives  of  the 
processes  by  which  the  trusting  but  deceived 
cotton-farmer  is  finally  brought  to  ruin  is 
graphic  and  powerful. 

Very  dear  to  the  heart  of  our  great  Georgia 
poet  is  the  old  deserted  Georgian  hill  which 

"Bares  to  the  sun  his  piteous  aged  crest, 

And  seamy  breast, 

By  restless-hearted  children  left  to  lie 
Untended  there  beneath  the  heedless  sky, 
As  barbarous  folks  expose  their  old  to  die"; 

and  in  conclusion,  the  poet  apostrophizes  it  in 
the  following  exquisite  and  majestic  lines : 

"Old  hill !    old  hill !    thou  gashed  and  hairy  Lear, 
Whom  the  divine  Cordelia  of  the  year, 
E'en  pitying  Spring,  will  vainly  strive  to  cheer — 
King,  that  no  subject  man  nor  beast  may  own, 
Discrowned,  undaughtered,  and  alone — 
Yet  shall  the  great  God  turn  thy  fate, 
And  bring  thee  back  into  thy  monarch  state 
And  majesty  immaculate." 


22          Representative  Southern  Poets 

This  poem  was  universally  admired,  and 
secured  for  its  author  the  warm  friendship  and 
the  valuable  influence  of  many  of  the  foremost 
writers  and  critics  of  the  day.  Prominent 
among  these  was  Bayard  Taylor,  through 
whose  instrumentality  Lanier  was  selected  to 
write  the  words  for  the  cantata  which  was  sung 
at  the  opening  of  the  Centennial  Exposition  at 
Philadelphia  in  1876.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  this  poem  created  a  literary  sensation  at 
the  time  on  account  of  its  unique  conception, 
its  peculiar  construction,  and  its  remarkable 
meters  and  rhythmic  effects.  Quite  a  war  of 
words  took  place  in  critical,  literary,  and  musi 
cal  circles,  which  were  arrayed  for  and  against 
the  poem,  and  Lanier  himself  came  to  the  de 
fense  of  his  production  in  a  vigorous  and 
scholarly  article. 

Ill  health  again  compelled  him  to  leave  Balti 
more,  but  after  an  absence  of  a  year  he  returned 
to  that  city,  resuming  his  place  in  the  Peabody 
Orchestra,  and  continuing  with  that  organiza 
tion  for  three  winters.  In  1877  a  small  volume 
of  his  poems  appeared  from  the  press  of  the 
Lippincotts.  It  was  dedicated  in  some  charm 
ing  verses  to  Charlotte  Cushman.  The  volume 
contained  "Corn,"  "The  Symphony,"  "The 
Psalm  of  the  West,"  and  a  few  miscellaneous 
poems. 

During  this  period  he  also  delivered  a  series 
of  private  lectures  on  the  poetry  of  the  Eliza- 


Sidney  Lanier  23 

bethan  era,  and  a  course  of  lectures  on  Shakes 
peare.  In  1879  he  was  appointed  lecturer  in 
English  literature  at  the  Johns  Hopkins  Univer 
sity  in  Baltimore,  a  position  which  opened  to 
him  the  prospect  of  a  brilliant  and  useful  career, 
with  the  assurance  of  a  comfortable  salary. 
During  the  preceding  summer  he  wrote  his 
"Science  of  English  Verse,"  an  elaborate, 
scholarly,  and  original  treatise  on  that  subject, 
presenting  Lanier's  peculiar  ideas  concerning 
the  technique  of  English  versification,  and 
which  he  has  illustrated  with  striking  and  beau 
tiful  effect  in  the  poetry  which  marks  the  high 
tide  of  his  genius. 

His  constantly  increasing  sickness  frequently 
prostrated  him,  yet  despite  this  affliction  he 
would  rally  himself  and  continue  his  exacting 
labors  as  a  musician  and  as  a  lecturer  at  the 
University.  Some  of  his  lectures  were  pub 
lished  in  book-form  under  the  title  of  "The 
English  Novel."  In  addition  to  these  works 
he  wrote  and  published  a  volume  descriptive 
of  the  scenery,  climate,  and  history  of  Florida, 
and  also  edited  in  a  charming  manner  three 
illustrated  books  for  boys,  putting  into  modern 
form  and  diction  some  of  the  classic  chronicles, 
tales,  and  ballads  of  ancient  chivalry. 

In  the  summer  of  1881  he  went  to  the  moun 
tain  region  of  North  Carolina,  where  he  tried 
camp-life  for  a  few  months,  but  found  no  relief 
from  his  sufferings.  On  the  seventh  day  of  the 


24          Representative  Southern  Poets 

following  September  he  died,  in  the  thirty-ninth 
year  of  his  age.  In  1885  n]'s  complete  poetical 
works,  edited  by  his  wife,  and  with  an  excellent 
memorial  written  by  William  Hayes  Ward,  was 
issued  from  the  press  of  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons,  New  York. 

When  the  spirit  of  Sidney  Lanier  left  its  frail 
earthly  tenement  for  that  celestial  home  where 
dwell  "the  pure  in  heart  who  see  God,"  his 
brother  poet,  Paul  Hayne,  wrote  to  me: 
"Lanier  had  so  much  work  to  do  it  does  seem 
mysterious  that  he  should  have  been  suddenly 
called  away;  yet  biography  is  full  of  just  such 
cases.  We  dwell  in  a  world  of  riddles,  seeing 
through  a  glass  darkly.  One  must  either  trust 
in  a  higher  power  unquestioningly,  or  simply 
despair.  For  my  part  I  prefer  to  trust." 

Those  who  have  made  a  study  of  the  work 
which  Lanier  was  permitted  to  do  and  which 
testifies  to  the  excellence  of  his  art,  and  justifies 
his  claim  to  literary  immortality,  will  sincerely 
unite  in  the  regret  expressed  by  the  elder  poet, 
who  himself,  only  five  years  later,  was  called 
from  labor  to  rest. 

Though  Lanier' s  work  was  fragmentary  and 
his  collected  poems  form  but  a  small  volume, 
yet  he  displays  such  luminousness  of  inspira 
tion,  such  perfection  of  artistic  skill,  such  refine 
ment  and  culture,  and  taste,  such  depth  and 
tenderness  of  feeling,  such  rare  originality,  and 
exquisite  melodiousness,  as  amply  to  merit  the 


Sidney  Lanier  25 

statement  made  by  one  of  the  most  prominent 
London  reviews  concerning  him.  "Lanier," 
says  the  reviewer,  "died  so  early  that  he  really 
did  not  show  us  more  than  the  bud  of  his  genius, 
but  if  he  had  lived  ten  years  longer  he  would, 
we  believe,  have  ranked  high  among  English 
poets  and  probably  above  every  American  poet 
of  the  past."  This  is  high  but  well-deserved 
praise. 

Sidney  Lanier  was  the  Chevalier  Bayard  of 
American  literary  men.  A  purer,  gentler, 
nobler  spirit  never  existed  on  earth,  and  this 
spirit  he  wrote  into  his  poetry.  The  very  fine 
ness  and  ethereality  of  his  verse,  its  delicacy, 
spirituality  and  delicious  musical  qualities,  are 
the  main  reasons  why  Lanier's  poetry  is  not 
popular  in  the  commonly  accepted  meaning  of 
that  word.  A  highly  cultivated  talent  for  the 
appreciation  of  poetry  and  music  is  requisite 
for  the  full  and  satisfying  comprehension  and 
enjoyment  of  Lanier' s  poetry. 

Intellectually  and  morally  he  abhorred  what 
soever  is  base,  common,  sordid,  or  merely  con 
ventional.  He  especially  despised  the  merce 
nary,  cold,  and  narrow  spirit  of  the  times,  and 
the  smug,  mean  commonplaceness  of  the  world. 
His  purpose  was  to  elevate  the  souls  of  men  into 
loftier  and  purer  regions  of  thought  and  aspira 
tion.  His  splendid  poem  "The  Symphony"  is 
full  of  strenuous,  virile,  and  melodious  protests 
against  the  withering  and  deadening  influences 


26          Representative  Southern  Poets 

of  the  sordid  aims  and  actions  of  men,  and  the 
groveling-  mercantile  methods  of  the  age.  He 
begins  this  noble  strain  with  the  exclamation : 

"O  Trade!     O  Trade!    would  thou  wert  dead! 
The  age  needs  heart — 'tis  tired  of  head," 

and  he  ends  with  a  sublime  apostrophe  to  the 
beauty  and  power  of  love. 

In  this  poem  each  instrument  of  the  orchestra, 
in  turn,  takes  up  the  sweet  but  manly  protests 
urged  against  the  barren,  selfish,  and  brutaliz 
ing  influences  of  the  maddening  greed  for 
money,  and  against  the  octopus  power  of  trade, 
to  strangle  the  nobler  aspirations  of  the  soul, 
and  to  destroy  the  tender  and  generous  sympa 
thies  and  affections  of  the  heart. 

The  violins,  assisted  by  all  the  mightier 
strings,  enter  the  arena  of  song  to  defend  and 
champion  love  and  art.  Having  pleaded  pas 
sionately  for  a  cessation  of  the  strangling 
methods  of  the  fierce  spirit  of  trade,  and  for 
relief  from  the  deadly  pressure  of  it  upon  the 
throats  of  the  helpless  poor,  the  stringed  instru 
ments  sink  at  last 

"to  gentle  throbbing 

Of  long  chords  change-marked  with  sobbing — 
Motherly  sobbing,  not  distinctlier  heard 
Than  half  wing-openings  of  the  sleeping  bird, 
Some  dream  of  danger  to  her  young  had  stirred." 

(By  the  way,  can  there  be  found  in  our  litera 
ture  anything  more  perfect,  more  wonderfully 


Sidney  Lanier  27 

delicate  and  ethereal,  than  the  lines  I  have  just 
quoted?) 

Presently  upon  the  tranquil  surface  of  the 
melody  of  the  strings, 

"A  velvet  flute-note  fell  down  pleasantly 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  harmony, 
And  sailed  and  sailed  incessantly, 
As  if  a  petal  from  a  wild-rose  blown 
Had  fluttered  down  upon  that  pool  of  tone, 
And  boat-wise  dropped  upon  the  convex  side, 
And  floated  down  the  glassy  tide, 
And  clarified  and  glorified 
The  solemn  spaces  where  the  shadows  bide. 
From  the  warm  concave  of  that  fluted  note 
Somewhat  half  song,  half  odor  forth  did  float, 
As  if  a  rose  might  somehow  be  a  throat ;" 

and  the  flute  takes  up  the  melodious  contest 
with  the  declaration  that 

"Man's  love  ascends 
To  finer  and  diviner  ends, 
Than  man's  mere  thought  e'er  comprehends," 

and  then  the  flute  demands  of  Science : 

"Whence  and  why 
Man's  tender  pain,  man's  inward  cry 
When  he  doth  gaze  on  earth  and  sky  ?" 

The  flute  then  describes  the  various  voices 
of  nature  which  it  utters,  and  of  which  it  claims 
to  be  the  interpreter.  These  passages  of  the 
flute-song  contain  brilliant  jewels  of  poetry, 
flashing  and  shining  with  the  pure  light  of 
imagination.  They  strain  our  sense  of  the 
beautiful  to  the  utmost  limit. 


28          Representative  Southern  Poets 

When  the  flute-voice  has  ceased,  the  clari 
onet,  representing  the  reed  instruments,  takes 
up  the  strain  in  the  melting  tones : 

"A  lady  sings  while  yet 
Her  eyes  with  salty  tears  are  wet." 

In  this  personification  the  clarionet  speaks  of 

"What  shameful  ways  have  women  trod 
At  beckoning  of  trade's  golden  rod," 

and  of  the  misery  which  follows  the  traffic  in 
hearts  for  gold ;  and  the  poet  exclaims : 

"If  men  loved  larger,  larger  were  our  lives, 
And  wooed  they  nobler,  won  they  nobler  wives." 

Then  the  bold,  straightforward  horn  thrusts 
itself  into  the  musical  battle  in  behalf  of  the 
clarionet-voiced  lady,  who  bemoans  the  sad  con 
dition  of  love  under  the  cruel  and  destructive 
despotism  of  heartless  Trade.  A  bold,  brave 
song  of  manly  scorn  and  of  loyalty  to  truth  and 
love  rings  in  this  heartsome  voice.  It  is  a  burn 
ing,  withering  arraignment  and  denunciation  of 
many  of  the  social  crimes  of  the  day.  The 
poet's  keen  blade  pierces  the  shams  and  shames 
which  disgrace  and  corrupt  the  times,  and  the 
disgusting  skeleton  is  pilloried  in  the  sight  of 
the  whole  world.  "Is  the  day  of  chivalry 
dead  ?"  cries  the  poet : 

"Is  Honor  gone  into  his  grave? 
Hath  faith  become  a  caitiff  knave, 
And  selfhood  turned  into  a  slave, 
To  work  in  mammon's  cave? 


Sidney  Lanier  29 

For  aye  shall  name  and  fame  be  sold, 

And  place  be  hugged,  be  hugged  for  the  sake  of  gold, 

And  smirch-robed  justice  feebly  scold 

At  crime  all  money-bold  ! 
Shall  woman  scorch  for  a  single  sin, 
That  her  betrayer  can  revel  in, 
And  she  be  burnt,  and  he  but  grin 

When  that  the  flames  begin? 
Shall  ne'er  prevail  the  woman's  plea : 
We  maids  would  far,  far  whiter  be 
If  that  our  eyes  might  sometimes  see 

Men  maids  in  purity !" 

Proclaiming-  his  faith  in  God,  and  in  the 
triumph  of  the  True,  and  announcing  his  deter 
mination  to  fight  on  for  true  love,  the  "knightly 
horn"  ceases,  and  the  hautboy,  singing  like  any 

"large-eyed  child 
Cool  hearted  and  undefiled," 

takes  up  the  fight  against  the  truth  and  love 
and  honor  destroying  spirit  of  Trade,  and  then 
the  ancient  wise  bassoons  are  heard  mingling 
their  voices  with  the  sea-like  sound  of  the  in 
struments,  and  the  symphony  concludes  with 
the  chanting  of  the  bassoon  voices,  the  poet 
figuring  Life  as  a  "sea- fugue,  writ  from  East  to 
West,"  whose  dissolving  score,  harsh  lialf- 
phrasings,  and  double  erasings  Love  alone  can 
make  perfect.  Love  alone  the  "sole  music- 
master  blessed,"  can  read  "Life's  weltering 
palimpsest:" 

"To  follow  Time's  dying  melodies  through, 
And  never  to  lose  the  old  in  the  new, 
And  ever  to  solve  the  discords  true — 
Love  alone  can  do. 


30          Representative  Southern  Poets 

And  ever  Love  hears  the  poor  folks'  crying, 
And  ever  Love  hears  the  women's  sighing, 
And  ever  sweet  knighthood's  death  defying, 
And  ever  wise  childhood's  deep  implying, 
But  never  a  trader's  glozing  and  lying. 
And  yet  shall  Love  himself  be  heard, 
Though  long  deferred,  though  long  deferred: 
O'er  the  modern  waste  a  dove  hath  whirred — 
Music  is  Love  in  search  of  a  word." 

All  of  Lanier's  life  was  a  beautiful  poem. 
His  heart  like  an  ^Eolian  harp  responded  in 
music  to  every  wind  of  fortune,  whether  it  blew 
as  a  zephyr  from  Hesperian  gardens  or  as  a 
blast  from  the  storm-clouds  of  adversity.  He 
sang  like  a  nightingale,  though  the  thorn  was 
rankling  in  his  breast.  In  song  he  sought 
respite  from  his  sufferings,  and  in  sweet  com 
munion  with  nature  found  hope  and  peace  and 
happiness. 

Even  while  the  hand  of  Death  lay  heavily 
upon  him,  the  divine  strength  of  his  nature 
asserted  itself.  As  he  was  lying  in  his  rude 
camp  on  a  mountainside  in  North  Carolina, 
whither,  accompanied  by  his  faithful  wife,  he 
had  gone  as  a  last  place  of  refuge  against  the 
assaults  of  the  fatal  disease  which  was  consum 
ing  him,  and  while  the  herald-beams  of  the  dawn 
were  tenderly  tipping  the  looming  peaks  with 
golden  flames,  we  are  told  that  he  wrote  with 
trembling  hand  on  the  back  of  an  envelope  the 
following  lines : 

"I  was  the  earliest  bird  awake,  I  believe, 
And,  somehow,  the  mountain-tops  did  not  hinder  me, 
And  I  was  aware  of  the  dawn, 
Not  by  mine  eyes,  but  by  my  heart" 


Sidney  Lanier  31 

O  tender  heart !  O  clairvoyant  spirit !  It  was 
the  symbol,  the  reflection  of  the  dawn-light  of 
eternity  that  thou  didst  see  and  feel,  streaming 
from  the  opening  gates  of  Paradise  across  the 
misty  mountain-tops  of  Time ! 

Out  of  his  ideal  home-life  Sidney  Lanier 
largely  drew  the  material  for  the  ideals  of  his 
art,  and  in  his  wife  and  children  he  found  much 
of  the  substance  which  served  him  for  the  woof 
and  warp  of  his  finest  poetic  works.  These 
wholesome  influences  kept  him  serene  in  his 
darkest  days  of  physical  and  mental  suffering. 
They  nerved  him  for  the  battle  of  life,  cheered 
him  in  despondency,  and  made  ample  amends 
for  all  the  acute  pain  which  his  sensitive  soul 
was  forced  to  endure  from  the  "slings  and 
arrows  of  outrageous  fortune." 

To  him  the  word  "home"  had  a  peculiar 
meaning,  to  which  he  has  given  utterance  in  his 
novel : 

"To  make  a  home  out  of  a  household,"  he 
says,  "given  the  raw  material,  to  wit :  wife, 
children,  a  friend  or  two,  and  a  house,  two  other 
things  are  necessary — these  are  a  good  fire  and 
good  music ;  and  inasmuch  as  we  can  do  without 
the  fire  for  half  the  year,  I  may  say  music  is 
the  one  essential.  Music  means  harmony,  har 
mony  means  love,  love  means  God." 

In  this  description  Lanier,  in  substance,  gives 
expression  to  the  beautiful  thought  of  Emerson, 
when  the  poet-philosopher  says :  "Where  the 


32          Representative  Southern  Poets 

heart  is,  there  the  Muses,  there  the  gods  so 
journ,  and  not  in  any  geography  of  fame.  See 
to  it  only  that  thyself  is  here,  and  art  and  nature, 
hope  and  fate,  friend  and  angels,  and  the 
Supreme  Being  shall  not  be  absent  from  the 
chamber  where  thou  sittest." 

He  never  lost  his  faith  in  God  and  in  his  art. 
In  his  poetry  and  in  his  music — he  was  a  master 
of  both — he  found  comfort  and  consolation; 
this  is  attested  by  a  passage  in  one  of  his  letters 
to  his  father,  in  which  he  says  : 

"Think  how  for  twenty  years,  through 
poverty,  through  pain,  through  weariness, 
through  sickness,  through  the  uncongenial 
atmosphere  of  a  farcical  college,  and  of  a  bare 
army,  and  then  of  an  exacting  business  life, 
through  the  discouragements  of  being  wholly 
unacquainted  with  literary  people  and  liter 
ary  ways — I  say,  think  how  in  spite  of  all  these 
depressing  circumstances,  and  of  a  thousand 
more  which  I  could  enumerate,  these  two 
figures  of  Music  and  Poetry  have  steadily  kept 
in  my  heart,  so  that  I  could  not  banish  them. 
Does  it  not  seem  to  you  as  to  me  that  I  begin  to 
have  the  right  to  enroll  myself  among  the  de 
votees  of  these  two  sublime  arts,  after  having 
followed  them  so  long  and  so  humbly  and 
through  so  much  bitterness?'' 

A  gifted  lady,  now  dead,  a  relative  of  the 
poet,  in  a  monograph  printed  for  private  circu 
lation,  some  years  ago,  pays  an  eloquent  tribute 


Sidney  Lanier  33 

to  Larder's  idyllic  home-life,  and  speaks  of  the 
poet's  devotion  to  his  wife,  and  of  the  beautiful 
character  of  this  accomplished  woman. 

She  says:  "The  supreme  charm  of  that 
home-life  lay  in  his  devotion  to  his  wife,  and 
hers  for  him.  She  married  a  penniless,  mis 
understood  poet,  already  doomed  with  con 
sumption,  and  through  the  terror  and  the  pain 
of  many  long  days,  when  she  knew  not  where 
the  bread  could  come  from  that  was  to  feed  her 
little  children,  she  kept  a  hopeful  outlook,  and 
remained  to  the  last  her  poet-lover's  bright 
inspiration." 

Affluently,  completely  did  the  poet  repay  the 
heroic  devotion  and  constant  love  of  this  perfect 
wife.  His  poems  are  full  of  her.  Witness  that 
tenderest  of  love-songs,  "My  Springs";  and 
what  a  knightly  strain  is  this : 

"O  sweet !  I  know  not  if  thy  heart  my  heart  can  greet, 
I  ask  not  if  thy  love  my  love  can  meet ; 
Whate'er  thy  worshipful  soft  tongue  shall  say, 
I'll  kiss  thine  answer,  be  it  yea  or  nay; 
I  do  but  know  I  love  thee,  and  I  pray 
To  be  thy  knight  until  my  dying  day." 

In  his  "June  Dreams  in  January,"  which 
seems  to  have  been  written  with  his  heart's 
blood,  this  profoundly  pathetic  passage  occurs : 

"Why  can  we  poets  dream  us  beauty  so, 
But  cannot  dream  us  bread?    Why,  now,  can  I 
Make,  aye  create  this  fervid  throbbing  June 
Out  of  the  chill,  chill  matter  of  my  soul, 
Yet  cannot  make  a  poorest  penny  loaf 
Out  of  this  same  chill  matter,  no,  not  one 
For  Mary,  though  she  starve  upon  my  breast?" 


34          Representative  Southern  Poets 

The  crystal-pure  nature  of  Lanier's  love  for 
his  wife,  as  well  as  the  beauty  of  his  poetic  art, 
is  shown  in  the  following  lovely  poem : 

"MY  SPRINGS. 

"Always,  when  the  large  form  of  love 
Is  hid  by  storms  that  rage  above, 
I  gaze  on  my  two  springs,  and  see 
Love  in  its  very  verity. 

"Always,  when  Faith  with  stifling  stress 
Of  grief  that  died  in  bitterness, 
I  gaze  in  my  two  springs,  and  see 
A  faith  that  smiles  immortally. 

"Always,  when  Art  with  perverse  wing, 
Flies  where  I  cannot  hear  him  sing, 
I  gaze  in  my  two  springs,  and  see 
A  charm  that  brings  him  back  to  me. 

"When  labor  faints  and  glory  fails, 
And  coy  reward  in  sighs  exhales, 
I  gaze  in  my  two  springs,  and  see 
Attainment  full  and  heavenly. 

"O  Love!    O  Wife!  thine  eyes  are  they, 
My  springs,  from  out  whose  shining  gray 
Issue  the  sweet,  celestial  streams, 
That  feed  my  life's  bright  lake  of  dreams. 

"Dear  eyes,  dear  eyes,  and  rare  complete, 
Being  heavenly  sweet  and  earthly  sweet, 
I  marvel  that  God  made  you  mine, 
For  when  He  frowns,  'tis  then  ye  shine." 

In  a  letter  to  his  wife,  in  which  he  endeavors 
to  cheer  her  with  his  own  brave  heart  and 
devout  Christian  philosophy,  he  writes : 


Sidney  Lanier  35 

"I  will  make  to  thee  a  little  confession  of  faith 
telling  thee,  my  dearer  self,  in  words  what  I  do 
not  say  to  my  not-so-dear  self  except  in  more 
modest  feeling. 

"Know,  then,  that  disappointments  were  in 
evitable,  and  will  still  come  until  I  have  fought 
the  battle  which  every  great  artist  has  had  to 
fight  since  time  began.  This — dimly  felt  while 
I  was  doubtful  of  my  own  vocation  and  powers 
— is  clear  as  the  sun  to  me,  now  that  I  know 
through  the  fiercest  tests  of  life,  that  I  am  in 
soul,  and  shall  be  in  life  and  utterance,  a  great 
poet. 

"The  philosophy  of  my  disappointments  is 
that  there  is  so  much  cleverness  standing  be 
twixt  me  and  the  public.  Richard  Wagner  is 
sixty  years  old  and  older,  and  one-half  of  the 
most  cultivated  artists  of  the  most  cultivated 
art-land  still  think  him  an  absurdity.  Says 
Schumann  in  one  of  his  letters :  The  publish 
ers  will  not  listen  to  me  for  a  moment' ;  and  dost 
thou  not  remember  Schubert,  and  Richter,  and 
John  Keats,  and  a  sweet  host  more  ? 

"Now  this  is  written  because  I  sit  here  in  my 
room  daily,  and  picture  thee  picturing  me  worn 
and  troubled  or  disheartened,  and  because  I  do 
not  wish  you  to  think  up  any  groundless  sorrow 
in  thy  soul.  Of  course,  I  have  my  keen  sorrows, 
momentarily  more  keen  than  I  would  like  any 
one  to  know,  but  I  thank  God,  that  in  a  knowl 
edge  of  Him  and  of  myself  which  cometh  to  me 


36          Representative  Southern  Poets 

daily  in  fresh  revelations,  I  have  a  steadfast 
firmament  of  blue  in  which  all  clouds  dissolve." 
And  so  on,  through  all  the  struggles  and  dis 
appointments,  in  darkness  and  in  light,  in  "hope 
deferred  which  maketh  the  heart  sick/'  unto  the 
time  when  the  clouds  began  to  break  and  the 
morning  sunshine  of  a  brighter  future  illumined 
the  pathway  of  the  poet,  alas!  only  to  close 
suddenly  in  the  gloom  of  death,  this  valiant, 
patient  spirit  toiled  on  in  the  service  of  the  two 
arts  to  which  he  had  consecrated  himself,  con 
tinuing  to  sing  tender  and  charming  songs,  and 
to  write  noble  poems  breathing  the  essence  of 
love  aflame  with  the  sacred  fire  of  truth,  and 
radiant  with  the  serene  glory  of  art.  When  the 
transient  sunshine  of  prosperity  began  to  fall 
upon  his  path,  pitiful  it  was  that  this  prosperity 
should  have  lasted  but  a  year  or  two.  He  wrote 
to  his  dear  ones  in  their  distant  Georgia  home 
this  exquisite  invocation : 

"O  Sweet,  my  Sweet,  to  dream  is  power, 
And  I  can  dream  thee  bread  and  dream  thee  wine, 
And  I  will  dream  thee  robes  and  gems,  dear  Love, 
To  clothe  thy  holy  loveliness  withal ; 
And  I  will  dream  thee  here  to  live  by  me, 
Thee,  and  my  little  man  thou  holdest  at  breast ; 
Come  name,  come  fame,  and  kiss  my  sweetheart's  feet." 

The  pathetic  story  of  this  rare  life  closed  in 
a  manner  becoming  its  beauti  f  ul  theme.  I  quote 
again  from  the  little  memoir,  to  which  allusion 
has  already  been  made ;  the  writer  says : 


Sidney  Lanier  37 

"But  the  unequal  struggle  for  bread  was  not 
to  continue  long.  Just  as  the  public  was  begin 
ning  to  appreciate  his  work,  God  silenced  the 
flute-moan,  and  lifted  the  brave  spirit  into  a 
region  of  happier  melodies.  For  days,  at  the 
last,  he  seemed  dying  by  inches,  yet  with  perfect 
consciousness,  and  with  the  exaltation  of  those 
'pure  in  heart  who  shall  see  God.'  ' 

"Sunrise,"  his  last  and  his  grandest  poem, 
was  written  when  he  was  too  weak  even  to  raise 
his  hand  to  his  mouth.  The  poem  was  one  of 
his  series  of  "Hymns  of  the  Marshes."  This 
unfinished  series  includes  "Sunrise,"  "Individ 
uality,"  "Sunset,"  and  the  "Marshes  of  Glynn." 

The  poems  of  this  series  are  suffused  with 
the  celestial  light  of  genius.  They  are  frag 
ments  of  exquisite  art  and  contain  the  quintes 
sence  of  the  poet's  ideal  life.  The  workmanship 
is  perfect.  They  display  a  wealth  of  imagery, 
a  power  of  imagination,  a  subtle  sweetness  of 
music  and  harmony  of  numbers,  a  profound 
philosophic  insight  into  the  mysterious  lan 
guage  and  portents  of  nature,  and  a  knowledge 
of  the  deepest  thoughts  and  intuitions  of  the 
human  heart,  unequaled  in  American  poetry, 
and  surpassed  only  by  a  few  of  the  master-poets 
of  the  world. 

Listen  to  the  poet's  invocation  to  the  leaves, 
as  he  stands  at  sunrise  in  the  marsh,  holding 
spiritual  converse  with  the  live  oak : 

"The  sweet  burly-barked,  man-bodied  tree," 


38          Representative  Southern  Poets 

which  his  arms  are  embracing  in  the  prescient 
darkness  that  precedes  sunrise : 

"Ye  lisperers,  whisperers,  singers  in  storms, 
Ye  consciences,  murmuring  faiths  under  forms, 
Ye  ministers,  meet  for  each  passion  that  grieves, 
^  Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves. 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that  contain  me, 
Wisdoms  ye  winnow  from  winds  that  pain  me ; 
Sift  down  tremors  of  sweet-within-sweet, 
That  advise  me  of  more  than  they  bring — repeat 
Me  the  woods-smell  that  swiftly  but  now  brought  breath 
From  the  heaven-side  bank  of  the  river  of  Death — 
Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence — preach  me 
The  passion  of  patience — sift  me — impeach  me — 

And  there,  oh  there, 

As  ye  hang,  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the  air, 
Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer." 

And  what  a  magnificent  picture  the  poet 
paints  for  us,  a  little  farther  on,  of  the  strange 
sights  and  sounds  on  the  edge  of  the  marsh,  just 
as  the  premonitory  signs  of  the  coming  dawn 
betray  themselves  to  the  poet's  eyes  and  ears : 

"The  tide's  at  full;  the  marsh  with  flooded  streams 
Glimmers,  a  limpid  labyrinth  of  dreams ; 
Each  winding  creek  in  grave  entrancement  lies, 
A  rhapsody  of  morning  stars.    The  skies 
Shine  scant  with  one  forked  galaxy — 
The  marsh  brags  ten :  looped  on  his  breast  they  lie. 

"Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made! 
Oh,  what  if  a  bound  should  be  laid 
To  this  bow-and-string  tension  of  beauty  and  silence 

aspring, 
To  the  bend  of  beauty,  the  bow,  or  the  hold  of  silence, 

the  string! 

I  fear  me,  I  fear  me  yon  dome  of  diaphanous  gleam, 
Will  break  as  a  bubble  o'er-blown  in  a  dream— 


Sidney  Lanier  39 

Yon  dome  of  too-tenuous  tissues  of  space  and  of  night, 
O'er-weighted  with  stars,  over-freighted  with  light, 
Over-sated  with  beauty  and  silence,  will  seem 

But  a  bubble,  that  broke  in  a  dream, 
If  a  bound  of  degree  to  this  grace  be  laid, 

Or  a  sound  or  a  motion  made." 

But  the  inevitable  denouement  of  the  majestic 
drama  about  to  be  enacted,  and  which  the  poet 
feels  in  his  soul,  develops  itself  rapidly.  The 
sound  and  motion  hinted  at  in  the  prophecy 
declared  in  the  premonitions  of  dawn,  begin  to 
be  audible  and  to  stir : 

"But  no:  it  is  made:  list!  somewhere — mystery,  where? 

In  the  leaves?    In  the  air? 
In  my  heart  ?  is  a  motion  made : 

Tis  a  motion  of  dawn,  like  a  flicker  of  shade  on  shade. 
In  the  leaves  'tis  palpable ;  low,  multitudinous  stirring 
Upwinds  through  the  woods ;  the  little  ones,  softly  con 
ferring, 
Have  settled  my  lord's  to  be  looked  for;  so,  they  are 

still; 

But  the  air  and  my  heart  and  the  earth  are  athrill — 
And  look,  where  the  wild  duck  sails  round  the  bend  of 
the  river, 

And  look,  where  a  passionate  shiver 
Expectant,  is  bending  the  blades 
Of  the  marsh-grass  in  serial  shimmers  and  shades — 
And  invisible  wings,  fast  fleeting,  fast  fleeting, 

Are  beating 
The  dark  overhead  as  my  heart  beats — and,  steady  and 

free, 

Is  the  ebb-tide  flowing  from  marsh  to  sea — 
Run  home,  little  streams, 
With  your  lapfuls  of  stars  and  dreams — 
And  a  sailor,  unseen,  is  hoisting  a-peak, 
For,  list,  down  the  inshore  curve  of  the  creek 

How  merrily  flutters  the  sail — 
And  lo,  in  the  East !    Will  the  East  unveil  ? 


40  Representative  Southern  Poets 

The  East  is  unveiled,  the  East  hath  confessed 
A  flush:  'tis  dead;  'tis  alive;  'tis  dead,  ere  the  West 
Was  aware  of  it;  nay,  'tis  abiding,  'tis  unwithdrawn : 
Have  a  care,  sweet  Heaven !  'tis  Dawn." 

The  well-known  English  critic,  Le  Gallienne, 
in  an  article  wherein  he  discusses  the  merits  of 
Lanier's  poems,  says  of  the  "Marshes  of 
Glynn": 

"There  are  four  hymns  in  all,  but  only  two 
are  of  real  importance,  namely,  'Sunrise*  and 
the  'Marshes  of  Glynn.'  In  fact,  had  he  written 
all  his  other  poems  and  missed  writing  these, 
striking,  suggestive  and  fine  lines  as  those  other 
poems  often  are,  he  could  hardly  have  been  said 
to  succeed  in  his  high  poetic  ambition,  as  by  these 
two  poems,  I  think,  he  must  be  allowed  to  suc 
ceed.  In  the  other  poems  you  see  many  of  the 
other  qualities,  perhaps  all  the  qualities,  which 
strike  you  in  the  hymns — the  impassionate 
observation  of  nature,  the  Donne-like  meta 
physical  fancy,  the  religious  and  somewhat 
mystic  elevation  of  feeling,  expressed  often  in 
terms  of  deep  imaginative  understanding  of 
modern  scientific  conceptions ;  in  fact,  you  find 
all  save  the  important  quality  of  that  ecstasy 
which  in  'The  Glynns'  fuses  all  into  one  splen 
did  flame  of  adoration,  upon  the  altar  of  the 
visible  universe.  The  ecstasy  of  modern  man 
as  he  stands  and  beholds  the  sunrise,  or  the 
coming  of  the  stars,  or  any  such  superb  ele 
mental  glory,  has  perhaps  never  been  so  keenly 


Sidney  Lanier  41 

translated  into  verse.  Those  who  heard  Lanier 
play  remarked  upon  the  strange  violin  effects 
which  he  conquered  from  the  flute.  Is  it  fanci 
ful  to  feel  that  in  these  long,  sweeping  and 
heartbreakingly  sensitive  lines,  Lanier  equally 
cheated  his  father  who,  as  we  know,  feared  for 
him  the  fascination  of  the  violin?  It  needs  a 
long  quotation,  and  even  that  may  properly  he 
inadequate,  to  illustrate  what  I  mean.  Lanier 
is  often  exquisite  and  lovingly  learned  in  detail, 
but  his  verse  is  large  in  movement  and  needs 
room." 

In  person  Lanier  was  the  ideal  poet.  Tall 
and  slender,  graceful  in  his  movements,  dignified 
yet  gentle  in  demeanor.  His  features  were 
expressive  and  classic  in  outline,  his  eyes  were 
clear,  large  and  soulful,  his  voice  was  soft  and 
musical,  his  presence  attracted  attention  at  once, 
and  proclaimed  him  to  be  a  man  far  above  the 
common  standard. 

The  first  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
him  was  in  Atlanta,  and  I  was  introduced  to 
him  by  a  mutual  friend.  He  had  stopped  for  a 
day  in  this  city,  while  on  his  way  to  Macon  from 
San  Antonio,  Texas,  where  he  had  spent  a  few 
months  for  his  health.  A  musical  and  literary 
entertainment  was  to  be  given  that  night  in  one 
of  the  public  halls  for  some  charitable  purpose. 
He  had  been  invited  to  take  part  in  the  program. 
Together  we  left  the  hotel,  and  walked  to  the 
hall.  He  was  introduced  to  the  audience  and 


42          Representative  Southern  Poets 

played  in  his  usual  masterly  manner  several 
beautiful  airs  on  his  flute.  The  audience  was 
thrilled  by  the  sweetness  of  his  playing,  and, 
in  response  to  an  insistent  encore,  he  played  the 
familiar  air  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  with 
lovely  variations  of  his  own. 

When  the  entertainment  was  over  we  re 
turned  to  the  hotel.  He  invited  me  to  his  room. 
From  a  discursive  conversation  about  litera 
ture,  music,  and  art  in  general,  we  drifted  into 
metaphysics — German  metaphysics  at  that.  I 
was  amazed  at  his  profound  and  intimate 
knowledge  of  that  abstruse  science  and  his 
familiarity  with  the  writings  of  the  great  think 
ers  of  Germany,  whose  works  he  had  studied 
with  all  the  ardor  of  his  intensely  warm  and 
imaginative  nature.  He  gave  full  play  to  his 
splendid  faculties,  and  like  the  Theban  eagle 

"Soaring  with  supreme  dominion 
Through  the  azure  depths  of  air," 

he  touched  the  crests  of  the  loftiest  heights  of 
philosophic  thought.  We  "took  no  note  of 
time/'  so  profoundly  absorbed  were  we  in  the 
discussion,  and  it  was  past  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  before  we,  reluctantly,  parted.  It  was 
an  ambrosial  night,  the  recollection  of  which, 
coupled  with  the  melodious  voice  and  spirituelle 
face  of  him  who  long  ago  has  joined  "the  choir 
invisible,"  lingers  ineffaceably  in  my  mind  and 
in  my  heart. 


Sidney  Lanier  43 

It  is  not  necessary  here  to  enlarge  upon  the 
ethereal  beauty,  the  philosophic  insight,  the 
pure  moral  purpose,  the  manly  strength,  the 
rich  and  variant  music,  the  frequently  almost 
inapprehensible  spirituality  of  Lanier's  best 
work.  These  qualities  we  find  in  "Corn,"  the 
poem  which  first  made  him  famous,  and  fuller 
still  in  that  lofty  flight  of  his  peculiar  genius, 
"The  Symphony,"  and  that  unique  and  most 
perfect  cluster  of  all  his  poetic  gems,  the 
"Marshes  of  Glynn,"  in  which  he  reveals  to  the 
highest  degree  his  masterful  knowledge  of  the 
subtlest  mysteries,  and  his  command  of  the 
rarest  resources,  of  the  divine  art  of  poesy.  The 
qualities  which  Baudelaire  recognizes  in  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  we  also  find  in  Sidney  Lanier, 
namely,  "The  extra-terrestrial  accent,  the  mel 
ancholy  calm,  the  delicious  solemnity,  the  pre 
cocious  experience,  I  had  almost  said  the  inborn 
experience,  which  characterizes  great  poets." 

In  that  supreme  court  in  which  such  questions 
are  finally  adjudicated,  the  verdict  has  already 
been  rendered,  and  this  favorable  verdict  will 
stand  the  test  of  time.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that 
Sidney  Lanier  wrote  for  immortality  and  ac 
complished  his  purpose. 

A  fine  bronze  bust  of  Lanier  is  in  the  Johns 
Hopkins  University  at  Baltimore;  another,  a 
copy  of  the  Baltimore  bust,  was  presented  to 
the  city  of  Macon  by  Mr.  Charles  Lanier,  a 


44          Representative  Southern  Poets 

cousin  of  the  poet.  Both  memorials  were 
publicly  unveiled  with  interesting-  ceremonial 
exercises. 

At  Macon  the  ceremony  took  place  on  the 
1 7th  of  October,  1890,  and  the  poet's  native 
city  made  a  festival  day  of  the  event.  The 
memorial  poem  written  by  Mr.  William  H. 
Hayne,  of  Augusta,  one  of  Georgia's  sweetest 
poets,  is  as  follows : 

"Unveil  the  noble  brow,  the  deep-souled  eyes, 
Wherein  melodious  unities 
Of  music  and  of  poetry  were  born, 
For,  undeterred  by  care's  half  sluggish  thorn, 
Barbed  oft  with  suffering,  he  bravely  brought 
To  song's  full  bloom  his  lyric  buds  of  thought. 

"Here  Love  and  Homage  shall  alike  proclaim 
The  undying  whiteness  of  our  poet's  fame, 
Wed  to  the  marble,  yet  exempt  from  cold, 
As  winter's  clouds  blest  by  the  sun's  warm  gold. 

"And  now  I  hear, 
Far  off  yet  clear, 
Two  voices  that  are  one ; 
For,    drawing   close   to   music's   feet, 
'Tis  thus  her  lyric  sister  sweet 
Sings  of  their  cherished  son: 

"Strong-winged  and  free,  each  word  of  me 
Thrilled  through  his  heart  and  brain  ; 
His  soul  was  lit  by  lights  that  flit 
Across  the  waving  grain; 

"The  marshes  drear  he  made  a  prayer, 
With  words  whose  wondrous  flight 
Bore  thoughts  that  reach  through  rhythmic  speech 
To  sun-lands  out  of  sight. 


Sidney  Lanier  45 

"He  let  no  seed  from  Doubt's  dark  weed 

Fall  in  the  holy  shrine, 
Where  Song  was  bred,  by  Music  led 
To  beckoning  heights  divine ; 

"And  seldom  mute,  his  silver  flute 

Invoked  with  matchless  art, 
Each  wave  of  sound  by  silence  bound 
Within  her  vestal  heart. 

"Death's  arctic  fear— 'a  cordial  rare' 

To  his  enraptured  dream — 
Came  from  the  Blue  his  spirit  knew, 
Of  Love  and  Faith  supreme. 

''His  'Sunrise  Song,'  with  rapture  strong, 

Rose  like  a  lark  in  light, 
Who  feels  the  sway  of  sovereign  day 
Reign  o'er  the  mists  of  Night. 

"He  loved  the  flow  of  winds  that  blow 

To  'odor-currents'  set, 
The  gem-like  hue  of  fleeting  dew, 
Frail  rose  and  violet ; 

'The  soul  in  trees,  whose  litanies 

His  reverent  spirit  heard, 
The  corn  blade  rife  with  vernal  life, 
The  rune  of  bee  or  bird. 

"Strong-winged  and  free,  each  word  of  me 

Thrilled  through  his  heart  and  brain, 
His  soul  was  lit  by  lights  that  flit 
Across  the  waving  grain  ; 

"The  marshes  drear  he  made  a  prayer 
With  words  whose  wondrous  flight 
Bore  thoughts  that  reach  through  rhythmic  speech 
To  sun-lands  out  of  sight." 


46          Representative  Southern  Poets 

Mr.  Harry  Stillwell  Edwards  contributed  the 
following  tender  lines : 

"O,  not  for  us  who  knew  thee,  thou  dear  immortal ! 
Lifts  now  the  veil  from  this  thy  sculptured  wraith; 
Love  long  has  watched  thy  shrine,  and  o'er  its  portal 
Burns  his  bright  torch  and  hangs  the  star  of  faith ; 
When  that  clear  flame  fades  into  blackened  ember, 
And  in  the  new  white  morn  the  fair  Faith-star  is  set, 
When  we  the  beauty  of  thy  holiness  forget, 
Then  Art  may  teach  the  frail  heart  to  remember; 
Nor  need  to  teach  it  then  while,  far  and  free, 
Thy  music  wanders  o'er  the  boundless  sea. 
Yield  to  the  stranger-lovers,  then,  yon  sad  presentment, 
That  dims  our  sight  with  the  unfallen  tear ; 
Smiles  ever  by  our  hearts'  firesides,  in  sweet  content 
ment, 
The  tender  face  of  our  own  lost  Lanier." 

In  a  charming  quatrain  written  for  the  occa 
sion  by  John  B.  Tabb,  he  describes  Lanier's 
spirit  as 

"A  spirit  like  the  marshes  large  and  wide, 
All  flooded  o'er  with  mystic  harmonies 
Of  sunrise,  and  the  swelling  of  the  tide, 
Or  'grave  enhancement'  of  the  evening  skies." 

President  D.  C.  Oilman,  of  the  Johns  Hop 
kins  University,  in  his  letter  to  the  committee 
says : 

"The  friends  of  Sidney  Lanier  in  Baltimore 
have  been  very  glad  to  hear  that  a  likeness  of 
the  poet  has  been  placed  in  the  public  library 
of  his  native  city.  You  are  to  be  congratulated 
on  having  a  replica  of  the  bust  that  we  have 
here.  Every  time  that  I  look  at  it  I  am  re- 


Sidney  Lanier  47 

minded  of  his  chivalric  bearing,  of  his  persua 
sive  voice,  of  his  lofty  ideals,  and  every  time  I 
open  the  pages  of  his  poems  I  regret  that  a  life 
which  accomplished  much  and  promised  more, 
was  brought  to  its  close  so  soon. 

"We  need  not  concern  ourselves  with  respect 
to  the  life  of  his  poetry — that  takes  care  of  it 
self;  but  it  is  well  to  endeavor  to  perpetuate 
the  unusual  characteristics  of  the  man  and  to 
keep  in  mind  the  native  of  Georgia  who,  amid 
all  the  discouragement  which  came  from  ill- 
health  and  all  the  change  which  the  war  in 
volved,  was  constantly  striving  for  the  noblest 
and  best.  His  name  is  among  the  names  most 
honored  in  the  annals  of  this  University. 
'Aspiro  dum  aspiro'  is  the  motto  which  has  been 
placed  upon  the  memorial  tablet  that  here  bears 
his  name.  It  is  the  record  of  his  latter  years." 

Letters  of  sincere  appreciation  were  received 
and  read  from  noted  authors  in  all  parts  of  the 
country,  and  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts,  the  poet, 
speaking  for  Canada,  writes : 

"I  have  counted  it  one  of  my  chief  delights 
that  I  may  have  been  able  to  hasten  a  little  here 
in  Canada  the  proper  recognition  of  his  genius. 
There  is  a  personal  element  in  Lanier's  poetry 
which  makes  intenser  appeal  to  me  than  that  of 
any  other  American  poet  but  Emerson.  Aside 
from  this  consideration,  I  cannot  but  think  that 
Lanier  was,  potentially  at  least,  one  of  the  three 
or  four  masters  of  American  song.  It  seems  to 


48          Representative  Southern  Poets 

me  that  he  reached  heights  of  insight  and  lyric 
fervor  which  have  been  surpassed  by  no  other 
poet  of  America.  His  work,  moreover,  like 
that  of  two  other  poets  very  dissimilar  to  him 
and  to  each  other,  Poe  and  Emerson,  is  stamped 
with  that  individuality  of  structure,  that  in 
sistent  originality  of  cadence  most  apt  to  im 
press  the  art  of  succeeding  singers.  His  place 
is  already  lofty  and  secure,  and  his  influence, 
which  makes  for  all  that  is  ideal  in  song,  will 
continue  its  advance  in  ever-widening  circles." 

The  chief  address  of  the  late  Hon.  W.  B.  Hill, 
Chancellor  of  the  University  of  Georgia,  was 
eloquent  and  masterly  in  subject  and  diction. 
So  beautifully  does  it  describe  for  us  the  nobility 
of  Lanier's  life,  and  the  classic  excellence  of  his 
poetry,  that  I  cannot  resist  the  desire  to  repro 
duce  the  address  in  full: 

"Sidney  Lanier  sings  the  psalm  of  his  own 
life  in  the  'Song  of  the  Chattahoochee.'  Pure 
was  that  life  as  the  mountain  stream  that  in  his 
native  Georgia  flows 

"  'Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Down  the  valley  of  Hall.' 

Manifold  hindrances  uprose  at  every  step  to 
deflect  or  bar  his  course,  set  toward  poetry  as 
the  mountain  brook  was  set  toward  the  sea.  He 
was  held  in  thrall  to  the  narrow  channel  of  his 
early  life  by  the  languor  of  wasting  disease,  and 
by  the  presence  in  his  "home- fond  heart"  of 


Sidney  Lanier  49 

family  care.  Bread  for  wife  and  children  could 
be  earned  in  the  uncongenial  toil  of  a  lawyer's 
office,  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  destiny  which 
throbbed  within  him.  Only  a  strong-  faith  could 
prophesy  that  the  manna  could  fall  from  those 
larger  heavens  whose  atmosphere  his  spirit 
craved  as  its  vital  air.  Listen  how  in  the  alle 
gory  of  the  song  we  hear  these  alluring  appeals : 

"  'All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  abide,  abide, 
The  wilful  water-weeds  held  me  thrall; 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said,  stay; 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  seed  sighed,  abide,  abide, 
Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall.' 

"But  no!  the  arid  waste  of  a  time  parched 
with  the  eagerness  of  its  own  greed,  the  drooping 
flowers  of  beauty  and  love  and  holiness,  the  sea 
of  song  stretching  its  sympathies  around  the 
hard  prosaic  of  human  life,  all  need  and  sorely 
need,  the  pure  and  quickening  message  which 
strives  within  him  to  find  vent. 

"  'Duty  whispers  low,  thou  must/  Besides 
the  time  is  short,  and  so  listen  how  the  stream 
asserts  its  strenuous  outgoing  mission : 

"  'But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
Avail :   I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain, 
Downward  the  voices  of  duty  call, 
Down-ward  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main; 


50  Representative  Southern  Poets 

The  dry  fields  burn  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  the  myriad  of  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 
Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall/ 

"It  was  said  of  some  poet  that  he  will  go 
down  to  posterity  with  a  small  book  under  his 
arm.  The  same  is  true  of  Lanier.  But  in 
the  growing  accumulations  of  literature  that 
threaten  to  submerge  us  under  books,  books, 
books,  a  title  to  immortality  will  more  surely 
rest  on  a  few  fine  creations  than  on  a  ponderous 
set  of  works.  Let  us  ask,  then,  what  are  the 
qualities  that  distinguish  Lanier's  poetry  and 
life,  and  for  which  he  will  be  remembered : 

"(i)  Lanier  is  the  type  in  a  nineteenth  cen 
tury  way  of  the  union  of  musical  and  poetic 
functions  in  the  old-time  bard  or  minstrel.  The 
real  significance  of  the  connection  of  his  musical 
genius  with  his  poetic  art  lies  not  so  much  in 
the  mere  skill  in  metrical  forms,  as  in  the  en 
richment  of  his  poetic  inspirations.  To  his 
musical  culture  he  was  also  indebted  for  his 
Theory  of  the  science  of  verse' — an  attempt  to 
find  scientific  basis  in  the  physical  laws  of  music 
for  the  laws  of  rhythm  and  poetical  expression. 

"Most  strikingly  this  rare  conjunction  of 
poetic  gifts  enabled  him  to  surpass  other  poets 
in  the  description  of  sounds ;  not,  perhaps,  in  the 
description  of  the  sounds  of  voluble  bells,  and 
lowing  herds,  and  surging  seas,  but  the  sounds 
which,  as  George  Eliot  says,  'Lie  upon  the  other 


Sidney  Lanier  51 

side  of  silence.'  'He  could  hestr  the  squirrel's 
heart  beat.'  If  to  other  poets  it  has  been  given 
to  behold  the  light  that  never  was  on  land  or 
sea,  to  him  it  was  given  to  hear  voices  in  the 
depths  of  woods,  and  the  brooding  of  the 
marshes  which  no  ear  but  his  had  ever  caught. 
To  his  quickened  hearing  the  indistinguishable 
vibrations  of  the  wings  of  bees  made  loud  fan 
fare.'  The  rustling  whispering  of  little  green 
leaves  awake  him  in  'Sunrise'  from  sleep.  How 
exquisite  this  description  from  'Corn' : 

'  The  copse  depths  into  little  noises  start, 
That  sound  anon  like  beatine  of  a  heart, 
Anon  like  talk  'twixt  lips  not  far  apart/ 

"(2)  Lanier  is  the  poet  of  a  passionate 
purity.  He  is  the  laureate  of  the  White  Cross 
movement  of  a  later  time — the  knightly  order 
of  Sir  Galahads,  whose  strength  is  as  the 
strength  of  ten,  because  their  hearts  are  pure. 
Woman's  protest  against  the  burning  injustice 
of  a  false  public  opinion,  which  man  has 
established,  was  never  more  finely  uttered  than 
in  the  lines 

'  'Must  woman  scorch  for  a  single  sin, 
Which  her  betrayer  may  revel  in?' 

"A  French  writer  has  lately  said  that  the  only 
receipt  for  creating  interest  in  fiction  is  To 
smash  the  Ten  Commandments,'  but  Lanier's 
genius  shrank  in  moral  recoil  from  the  pollution 


52          Representative  Southern  Poets 

of  this  desperate  and  devilish  device.  To  him  be 
longs  the  unique  honor  of  having  written,  in  the 
fine  poems  called  'In  Absence/  and  'Acknowl 
edgment/  the  only  fitting  response  ever  uttered 
by  masculine  lips  to  the  wifely  love  which  is 
glorified  in  Mrs.  Browning's  'Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese/  and  in  these  fine  poems,  together 
with  'My  Springs/  and  'Laus  Marise/  we  get 
glimpses  of  the  idyllic  marriage  which  the  poet 
thought  a  rich  compensation  for  all  the  other 
perfect  gifts  which  Providence  denied. 

"(3)  In  an  age  of  materialism  he  has  sung 
the  finer  things  of  the  spirit.  To  a  generation 
rushing  madly  after  wealth,  hardly  pausing  for 
one  moment  around  an  open  grave,  making 
business  a  battle ;  wedging  the  poor 

"  'Against   an   inward   opening   door 
That  pressure  tightens  evermore,' 

he  sounds  the  cry 

"  'Alas,  for  the  poor  to  have  some  part 
In  yon  sweet  living  land  of  art, 
Makes  problem  not  for  head  but  heart." 

"His  song  and  his  life  are  a  splendid  lesson 
for  this  needy  time — the  lesson  that  to  be  and 
to  know  are  greater  things  than  to  get  and  to 
have. 

"(4)  He  has  enriched  poetry  with  the  reve 
lation  of  aspects  of  nature  hitherto  unsung.  He 
was  the  first  that  ever  burst  into  that  silent  sea 

"  The  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 
marshes  of  Glynn.' 


Sidney  Lanier  53 

He  was  the  first  who  has  sung  in  lasting  melody 
the  waving  of  the  corn.  His  heart  was  as  open 
to  all  of  Nature's  revelations  as  the  morning- 
glory  to  the  sun.  A  mere  glance  at  the  titles  of 
the  poems  will  show  how  many  objects  touched 
the  springs  of  affection  within  him.  Wherever 
he  went,  Tampa,  Brunswick,  Chester,  he 
'carried  starry  stuff  about  his  wings/  and  has 
enriched  his  temporary  homes  with  the  pollen 
of  his  songs.  The  'peddler  bee/  the  'gospeling 
glooms  of  live  oaks/  'the  marsh  plants  thirsty- 
cupped  for  rain/  'the  myriad-prayer'  of  leaves 
'with  palms  upturned  in  air/  the  mocking-bird, 
'trim  Shakespeare  on  the  tree/  who  'summed 
the  woods  in  song/  These  are  but  few  of  the 
rare  felicities  of  phrase  which  glow  through  all 
the  little  green  gilt  volume  of  poems,  like  the 
globes  of  gold  that  on  a  'Florida  Sunday' 
studded  bright  the  green  heavens  of  the  orange 
groves. 

"  ( 5 )  The  story  of  his  life  is  a  heritage  of  all 
time.  The  undaunted  faith,  that  in  the  face  of 
all  practical  discouragements  bade  him  take 
flute  and  pen  for  sword  and  staff,  and  give  his 
allegiance  to  the  twin  arts  he  had  so  long 
worshiped.  The  manly  and  uncomplaining 
struggle  with  poverty  and  unrecognition.  The 
almost  airy  heroism  with  which  he  looked  Death 
in  the  eye,  calling  it 

"  The  rich  stirrup-cup  of  time/ 


54          Representative  Southern  Poets 

that  should  send  him  glad  on  his  journey  to  the 
undiscovered  country.  All  this  is  a  record  that 
the  world  will  not  willingly  let  die. 

"  The  idea  of  his  life  shall  sweetly  creep  into 
men's  study  of  imagination/ 

"Summing  up  all  these  qualities,  and  think 
ing  of  others  that  cannot  now  be  named,  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say,  in  words  which  I  quote  from 
Chief  Justice  Bleckley,  himself  a  poet:  'His 
fame  which  is  now  a  mere  germ,  may  one  day 
grow  to  be  a  tall  cedar  in  the  poetic  Lebanon/  " 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

The  mocking-bird,  who  leads  our  woodland  choir, 
Taught  thee  the  secrets  of  the  minstrel's  skill— 
The  power  to  move  the  hearts  of  men  at  will, 
To  soothe  the  soul,  to  rouse,  and  to  inspire ; 
Thou  "wakest  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre," 
With  the  same  exquisite  and  passionate  trill, 
Wherewith  our  matchless  bird  is  wont  to  thrill 
The  listening  woods,  while  voicing  Love's  desire. 
Nature's  warm  mother-heart  throbs  close  to  thine, 
She  keeps  no  secret  from  thine  eye  or  ear ; 
The  sky,  the  sea,  the  seasons'  changeful  moods, 
In  thy  translucent  verse  reflected  shine ; 
Of  all  who  love  her,  she  holds  none  more  dear 
Than  thee,  her  hermit-minstrel  of  the  woods. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne,  whose  poetical  works 
occupy  a  conspicuous  place  in  American  litera 
ture,  and  who  deservedly  ranks  witL  the  most 
distinguished  of  our  native  poets,  was  born  in 
Charleston,  South  Carolina,  January  i,  1830. 
He  was  the  scion  of  a  noble  family.  The  names 
of  some  of  his  ancestors  are  intimately  con 
nected  with  many  of  the  most  interesting  events 
in  the  history  of  our  country.  Some  of  them 
shed  their  blood  during  the  Revolution,  and 
were  martyrs  in  the  cause  of  American  inde 
pendence.  Others,  in  more  recent  times,  won 
honor  and  renown  as  soldiers,  statesmen,  and 
orators.  Notable  among  the  latter  was  the 


56          Representative  Southern  Poets 

poet's  uncle,  Robert  Y.  Hayne,  Governor  of 
South  Carolina,  whose  memorable  contest  with 
the  mighty  Webster,  of  Massachusetts,  in  the 
Senate  of  the  United  States,  fills  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  chapters  in  the  annals  of  our  National 
legislature. 

The  poet's  father  was  an  officer  in  the  United 
States  Navy,  and  died  at  sea  during  his  son's 
infancy.  The  poet's  mother  was  a  member  of 
a  distinguished  South  Carolina  family,  and  a 
lady  of  many  excellent  traits  of  character. 
Hayne  was  educated  in  his  native  city  and 
graduated  with  honors  from  Charleston  Col 
lege.  Possessing  all  the  advantages  which 
wealth,  high  social  position  and  unusually  bril 
liant  intellectual  gifts  could  bestow,  his  future 
appeared  to  be  a  prospect  of  cloudless  happiness. 
His  genius  manifested  itself  at  an  early  age,  and 
he  soon  became  one  of  the  brightest  stars  of  that 
galaxy  of  intellect,  culture,  and  taste  which  in 
cluded  such  names  as  John  C.  Calhoun,  Legare, 
Timrod,  William  Gilmore  Simms,  and  others. 
He  was  one  of  the  founders  and  the  editor  of 
Russell's  Magazine,  at  Charleston,  and  con 
tributed  to  a  number  of  the  prominent  literary 
periodicals  of  the  day.  In  1852  he  married 
Miss  Mary  Middleton  Michel,  a  beautiful  and 
highly  accomplished  lady  of  Charleston,  the 
daughter  of  one  of  the  most  eminent  physi 
cians  and  surgeons  of  that  city.  His  first  volume 
of  poems  was  published  in  Boston  in  1855,  a 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  57 

second  volume  was  published  in  Charleston  in 
1857,  and  a  third  volume  was  published  in 
Boston  in  1860. 

When  the  war  between  the  States  began  he 
served  on  the  staff  of  Governor  Pickens,  of 
South  Carolina.  During  the  bombardment  of 
Charleston,  Mr.  Hayne's  beautiful  home,  and 
his  large  library,  with  many  valuable  heirlooms, 
were  destroyed  by  fire.  At  the  close  of  the  war, 
with  a  few  fragments  saved  from  the  wreck  of 
his  fortune,  he  retired  to  an  isolated  place  in  the 
"pine  barrens,"  in  the  vicinity  of  Grovetown, 
Georgia,  sixteen  miles  from  Augusta.  Here 
he  resided  with  his  family  until  his  death.  The 
place  is  called  "Copse  Hill,"  and  the  rudely  con 
structed  little  cottage,  which  was  his  home  and 
literary  workshop  for  over  eighteen  years,  has 
become  a  famous  spot,  hallowed  by  the  glorify 
ing  glamour  of  Genius. 

In  a  charming  sonnet  entitled  "The  Cottage 
On  The  Hill,"  he  has  described  his  humble 
home  and  its  surroundings.  In  this  secluded 
spot,  far  from  the  mad  whirl  and  tumult  of  the 
world,  with  his  devoted  wife  and  gifted  son 
always  near  him,  he,  with  indomitable  spirit, 
unwavering  trust  in  God,  and  in  close  com 
munion  with  nature,  fought  uncomplainingly 
the  terrible  battle  of  life.  Keeping  his  armor 
bright  and  his  sword  unstained,  he  "fought  the 
good  fight  of  faith,"  overcoming  apparently 
insuperable  obstacles,  and  in  spite  of  severe 


58          Representative  Southern  Poets 

trials  and  keen  disappointments,  winning  vic 
tory  at  last,  and  a  crown  of  unfading  laurels. 

His  heroic  spirit,  his  serene  reliance  upon  the 
goodness  of  God,  and  his  faith  in  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  a  strong,  self-reliant  soul  over  all 
the  misfortunes  of  life,  are  eloquently  expressed 
in  his  noble  poem  entitled  "Lyric  of  Action." 
By  the  way,  a  very  pathetic  story  is  connected 
with  this  poem.  A  young  man  living  in  New 
York,  driven  to  despair  by  a  series  of  misfor 
tunes,  determined  to  end  his  troubles  by  com 
mitting  suicide.  He  had  completed  all  his 
arrangements  to  do  the  terrible  deed,  when 
accidentally,  while  looking  over  some  private 
papers,  he  came  across  a  clipping  from  a  news 
paper  containing  this  poem.  The  young  man 
read  it  through.  It  struck  a  chord  in  his  heart, 
the  music  of  which  thrilled  him  like  the  silvery 
tones  of  trumpets  that  awaken  a  sleeping  army, 
and  call  it  to  prepare  for  battle.  A  change  came 
over  the  dark  and  hopeless  spirit  of  his  dream ; 
the  clouds  rolled  away  from  his  brain,  and  the 
sunshine  of  a  new  and  brighter  life  suddenly 
quickened  his  soul.  He  determined,  then  and 
there,  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  in  his  history,  to 
cease  brooding  over  the  past,  to  stop  playing 
the  coward,  and  to  face  the  world  and  the  future 
like  a  brave  man  should.  He  prospered,  and 
several  years  afterwards  this  stranger  wrote  a 
very  touching  letter  to  the  poet,  detailing  the 
circumstances  just  mentioned.  With  grateful 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  59 

heart  he  thanked  him  for  having  written  the 
poem  which  was  the  means,  under  God,  of  sav 
ing  him  from  a  suicide's  grave.  No  event  in 
his  life  touched  Mr.  Hayne  more  deeply  than 
this,  and  whenever  he  mentioned  it,  he  showed 
how  profoundly  his  feelings  were  affected  by  it. 

His  "Legends  and  Lyrics"  appeared  in  1872. 
This  volume  contains  the  powerful  and  brilliant 
poem  called  "Cambyses  and  the  Macrobian 
Bow,"  which  he  himself  considered  one  of  his 
very  best.  Mrs.  Hayne  told  me  that  it  was  his 
favorite  among  all  the  poems  of  that  class  which 
he  had  written.  It  is  a  dramatic  poem  of  sus 
tained  strength,  rich  in  oriental  coloring  and 
vital  with  the  varying  play  of  passion.' 

King  Cambyses,  surrounded  by  his  courtiers, 
is  reclining  in  luxurious  ease,  under  the  plane 
trees.  One  of  his  courtiers,  talking  to  his  com 
rades,  is  extolling  the  matchless  skill  of  a 
famous  Bactrian  archer  in  bow-craft.  The 
King,  who  had  the  reputation  of  being  the 
mightiest  archer  in  his  realm,  grows  hot  with 
envy  as  he  listens  to  the  recital  of  his  rival's 
powers  as  an  archer.  Rising  from  his  couch 
and  addressing  Prexaspes,  the  speaker,  the 
King,  pointing  toward  the  south,  says : 

"Seest  thou,  Prexaspes,  yonder  slender  palm, 

A  mere  wan  shadow,  quivering  in  the  light, 

Topped  by  a  ghastly  leaf-crown?" 

and  then  asks  him  whether  he  thinks  the  famous 
Bactrian,  standing  here,  could  with  his  shaft 


60          Representative  Southern  Poets 

pierce  a  spot  as  large  as  a  hand  marked  upon  it. 
The  courtier  answers  that  such  a  feat  would  be 
beyond  mortal  skill.  The  King  asks  Prexaspes 
whether  he  thinks  that  he,  Cambyses,  would 
also  fail.  The  trembling  courtier,  feeling  a 
presentiment  of  coming  evil,  cautiously  inti 
mates  his  doubt,  and,  craving  the  King's  par 
don,  adds : 

"But  yester  eve,  amid  the  feast  and  dance, 
Thou  tarried'st  with  the  beakers  overlong." 

The  King's  eyes  flashed  with  hate  and  anger. 
He  singles  out  one  of  his  pages,  a  beautiful  boy, 
the  son  of  Prexaspes,  and  orders  the  father  to 
bind  the  boy  to  the  palm  tree.  Then  he  com 
mands  Prexaspes  to  fetch  him  the  Macrobian 
bow. 

The  child  is  fastened  to  the  tree,  and  Cam 
byses  takes  the  bow. 

"Slowly,  sternly  up 
He  reared  it  to  the  level  of  his  sight, 
Reared,  and  bent  back  its  oaken  massiveness, 
Till  the  vast  muscles,  tough  as  grape  vines,  bulged 
From  naked  arm  and  shoulder,  and  the  horns 
Of  the  fierce  weapon  groaning,  almost  met." 

Casting  a  look  of  malignant  hate  at  the  trem 
bling  satrap,  the  King  coolly  says : 

"Prexaspes,  look,  my  aim  is  at  the  heart !" 

The  bolt  flies  and  strikes  its  living  mark.  The 
body  of  the  child  sinks  quivering.  The  King, 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  61 

clapping  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Prexaspes, 
exclaims  gleefully : 

"Go  thou,  and  tell  me  how  that  shaft  hath  sped." 

The  wretched  father  creeps  step  by  step  toward 
his  dead  child.  Cambyses,  half-scornfully  and 
half-indifferently,  leans  upon  his  bow.  The 
father  returns ; 

"The  old  man's  face  was  riven  and  white  as  death." 
Making  meek  obeisance  to  the  King, 

"He  smiled  (oh,  such  a  smile!)  and  feebly  said: 
'What  am  I,  mighty  Master,  what  am  I, 
That  I  durst  question  my  lord's  strength  and  skill? 
His  arrows  are  like  arrows  of  the  god, 
Egyptian  Horus, — and  for  proof, — but  now, 
I  felt  a  child's  heart  (once  a  child  was  mine, 
'Tis  my  lord's  now  and  Death's)  all  mute  and  still. 
Pierced  by  his  shaft,  and  cloven,  ye  gods  !  in  twain!'  " 

The  King  answers  with  a  loud  laugh,  and  when 
his  hideous  merriment  is  over,  he  says : 

"  Thou  art  forgiven,'  said  he,  'forgiven,  old  man ; 
Only,  when  next  these  Persian  dogs  shall  call 
Cambyses  drunkard,  rise,  Prexaspes,  rise ! 
And  tell  them  how,  and  to  what  purpose  once, 
Once,  on  a  morn  which  followed  hot  and  wan 
A  night  of  monstrous  revel  and  debauch, 
Cambyses  bent  his  huge  Macrobian  bow.' " 

In  1873  Mr.  Hayne  edited  the  collected  poems 
of  his  friend  Henry  Timrod,  adding  an  inter 
esting  sketch  of  this  unfortunate  poet's  life. 
His  tribute  to  his  friend's  genius  is  exquisitely 


62  Representative  Southern  Poets 

tender,  graceful,  and  sympathetic.  In  1875 
Air.  Hayne  published  another  book  of  poems, 
which  embraced  his  fine  narrative  poem  "The 
Mountain  of  the  Lovers."  His  complete  Poet 
ical  Works  were  issued  from  the  press  of  Loth- 
rop  &  Co.,  Boston,  in  1882,  in  a  large  and  ele 
gant  volume,  with  numerous  fine  illustrations. 
The  charming  biographical  sketch  of  the  author 
in  this  volume  was  written  by  Mrs.  Margaret  J. 
Preston,  of  Virginia.  However,  a  number  of 
his  most  beautiful  poems  were  written  after  the 
publication  of  this  sumptuous  volume,  for 
instance  the  "Savannah  Sesqui-Centennial 
Ode/'  the  "Ode  for  the  Charleston  Centennial 
Celebration,"  and  many  notable  minor  poems 
and  lyrics.  In  the  Charleston  Centennial  Ode, 
Hayne  pays  the  following  pathetic  tribute  to  his 
beautiful  native  city: 

"O,  City  of  my  Father's  love!  beside  whose  streamlets 

straying, 
My   boyish    feet,    to   jocund   tunes,    have   gone   so   oft 

'a-Maying' ; 
O,    City    of    ancestral    graves!    each    clod    a    sacred 

treasure — 
What  marvel  that  one  mournful  chord  wails  through 

this  dying  measure  ? 
The  sea-songs  come,  the  sea-songs  go  across  thine  ocean 

reaches, 

The^sea-tides  ebb,  the  sea-tides  flow  far  up  thy  glitter 
ing  beaches ; 
Not  mine  to   draw  a  new-born  hope   from  waves   so 

brightly  glowing, 
Not  mine  to  hear  in  deep'ning  winds  a  trump  of  onset 

blowing! 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  63 

Ah!  no!  across  the  flow,  half-welcome,  half-appalling, 
I  catch  the  voices  of  the  dead  from  twilight  verges 

calling  ; 
The  shadows  grow  more  gray  that  shroud  this  strange 

outworn  existence. 

"Quaint  city  of  my  youth,  farewell !  no  more  these  eyes 

may  quiver, 
Dazed  by  the  glint  of  surf  and  sail  on  flickering  bar  or 

river, 

No  more  these  weary  limbs  may  own  the  soul's  imperi 
ous  order, 
To  bear  me  where  the  sun-caps  flash  beyond  the  billowy 

border ! 
Brave  city  of  my  youth,   farewell !    when   safe   from 

midday  riot, 
Kissed  by  the  slumberous  star  that  sways  her  lotus-land 

of  quiet, 
I    shall    see    through    half-closed    lids    thy    moonlight 

beauty  beaming, 
And  hear  St.  Michael's  bells  swoon  down  the  tides  of 

dreaming!" 

The  opening  lines  of  his  Sesqui-Centennial 
Ode,  written  for  the  celebration  of  the  one 
hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  found 
ing  of  Savannah,  by  Oglethorpe,  are  in  the 
poet's  best  vein,  and  strike  the  keynote  of  a 
masterly  production: 

"Man  clings,  we  know,  to  his  ancestral  clods ; 
Yet  are  there  those  who  tower  like  potent  gods 
Above  their  brethren,  on  whose  brows  the  sign 
Of  some  star-blazoned  splendor  burns  divine ! 

"In  whom  the  harshness  of  an  earthly  leaven, 
Is  softened  by  the  mystic  balm  of  heaven ; — 
Whose  epic  fates  through  broad,  deep  currents  roll, 
Urged  by  the  impulse  of  a  steadfast  soul, 
Toward  some  grand  Purpose  and  beneficent  goal ; 


64          Representative  Southern  Poets 

Souls  with  a  large  look  southward,  and  benign, 
Their  lives  harmonious  held  in  golden  tune 
With  Duty's  keynote  sounding  down  the  bars 
Of  the  high-ordered  music  of  the  stars ; 
Forever  open  to  the  liberal  noon 
Of  God,  of  Nature,  of  Humanity ! 

"Ah,  such  was  he 
In  whose  wise  mind  the  seed 
Of  a  great  Thought  lay  ripening  into  Deed, 
Slowly  developed  through  long,  toilful  years, 
Nurtured  by  blood  and  sanctified  by  tears, 
Clear  blood,  heroic  tears  that  left  no  trace 
Of  hopeless  anguish  on  the  weeper's  face ; 
Until  there  waved  from  changeful  hour  to  hour, 
The  soptless  petals  of  a  perfect  flower ; 
Rife  with  all  beauty,  flushed  by  power  and  health, 
This  Rose  of  States,  our  Georgian  commonwealth." 

One  of  his  last  was  that  remarkably  serene 
and  touching  poem  entitled  "Face  to  Face," 
which  appeared  in  Harper's  Magazine,  only  a 
few  weeks  before  his  death,  July  6,  1886. 

The  following  poem  in  memory  of  Richard 
Grant  White,  the  distinguished  Shakespearian 
scholar,  is  a  fine  example  of  the  poet's  commem 
orative  verse : 

"His  voice  I  had  not  heard,  or  seen  his  face, 
Yet  have  I  marked  all  features  of  his  mind — 

Their  stalwart  frankness  and  their  cultured  grace — 
And  known  what  largess  he  has  left  mankind ; 

Wise  thoughts,  pure  thoughts,  a  style  as  crystal  clear 

As  the  still  waters  of  a  Zetland  mere. 

"His  genius,  molded  in  a  form  unique, 

(Which  shuddered  at  the  touch  of  'Commonplace'), 
Held  in  a  fair  wedlock,  proldenly  combined. 
Modern  forthrightness  with  a  charm  antique, 
A  strength  all  Saxon  and  a  depth  half  Greek. 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  65 

"And  for  the  rest,  he  bore  his  spirit  high, 

Well-poised,  serene,  unwavering,  even  as  one 
Who,  tho  earth-bound,  would  rather  front  the  sky, 

And  fiery  blazon  of  the  noonday  sun 
Than  crouch  in  shades  of  cool  humanity, 
While  the  great  Triumphs  of  the  world  sweep  by. 

"He  kept  the  royal  ermine  of  his  pride 

Stainless — for  his  that  fast-decreasing  clan, 

Wherein  the  Sage  and  Scholar  strives  to  lift 

Above  our_  reckless  age's  sordid  drift — 
Above  his  shallow  scorn  or  furious  ban — 

Those  courtly  virtues  only  fools  deride, 
Which  stamp  the  heaven-elected  Gentleman. 

"Well  were  his  nature  and  his  toils  allied — 

Large  both  and  liberal ! — 'tis  no  marvel  then, 
He  walked  in  such  security  of  ease 
Through  Shakespeare's  world  of  monarchs  and  great 

men — 
A  kingly  Realm  he  loved  and  magnified. 

"Ah !  in  that  heavenly  Country  over  seas — 
We  wot  not  of,  all  shadow-wreathed  and  dim — 
I  trust — (are  not  its  mansions  manifold?)  — 

I  trust  a  happy  Home  remains  for  him, 
Wherein  the  wise  Grammarians  born  of  old, 
Scholars  and  Poets,  and  bright  souls  of  mark, 
Who  starred  the  blackness  of  the  ancient  Dark, 
May  chorus  welcome  to  the  nightless  lands — 
And  foremost  there  (upon  his  smiling  face, 
The  softened  sweetness  of  that  sacred  place), 
His    Master    Shakespeare,    with    warm,    outstretched 
hands !" 

The  poet's  remains  were  buried  in  the  old 
cemetery  at  Augusta,  close  to  the  spot  which 
holds  the  ashes  of  Richard  Henry  Wilde, 
author  of  the  famous  lyric,  "My  Life  Is  Like  a 
Summer  Rose" ;  and  now  by  his  side  rests  the 
body  of  his  beloved  and  faithful  wife — insepa- 


66  Representative  Southern  Poets 

rable  in  life,  inseparable  in  death.  The  poet's 
funeral  was  a  memorable  one.  The  whole  city 
was  in  mourning.  The  people  not  only  admired 
him  as  a  poet,  but  also  loved  him  as  a  man 
whose  life  illustrated  the  best  qualities  of  the 
chivalrous  race  from  which  he  sprang,  for  his 
heart  was  constantly  animated  by  a  passionate 
and  insistent  love  for  the  true,  the  good,  and 
the  beautiful.  A  very  touching  feature  of  the 
funeral-day  was  the  presence  of  several  thou 
sand  children,  who  lined  the  streets  as  the 
sorrowful  procession  passed  on  its  way  to  the 
cemetery.  Their  presence  testified  to  their  love 
for  their  distinguished  friend,  and  verified  the 
sweet  sentiment  of  one  of  his  own  lines : 

"The  children  loved  him,  so  he  sleeps  in  peace." 

The  lyre  of  every  true  poet  breathes  pure  and 
tender  music  when  he  strikes  its  strings  in  praise 
of  children,  or  in  memory  of  the  scenes,  the 
images,  the  hopes  and  fears,  the  joys  and  fleet 
ing  sorrows  of  childhood's  days.  I  am  always 
tempted  to  weigh  the  worth  of  a  poet's  popu 
larity,  that  is  to  say,  the  power  he  possesses  to 
write  himself  into  the  hearts  and  homes  of  men, 
by  the  way  in  which  he  treats  themes  that  con 
cern  childhood,  or  sings  to  or  about  children. 
I  judge  him  by  the  spiritual  insight  he  has  of 
a  child's  soul ;  by  the  power  with  which  he 
pictures  the  glow,  the  color,  the  ethereal  light 
and  shade  of  the  mysterious  world  that  shines 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  67 

so  serenely  from  the  liquid  depths  of  a  child's 
eyes ;  for  the  light  that  beams  from  these  eyes 
comes  from  a  source  much  nearer  to  the  star- 
lands  of  Peace  and  Love  than  is  the  source  from 
whence  we  men  and  women  of  the  world  receive 
our  spiritual  illumination.  Only  a  true  and 
largely  gifted  poet  can  do  this.  It  requires  per 
fection  of  art;  simplicity  without  barrenness, 
strength,  finely  proportioned  with  grace;  per 
spicuity;  originality  of  conception;  thought 
sanctified  by  genuine  emotion;  in  a  word,  it 
requires  him  to  have  the  rare  power  that  can 
send  a  noble  thought  from  his  heart  straight 
into  and  through  the  heart  of  another,  as  an 
arrow  speeds  from  the  bow  to  the  mark.  Hayne 
had  this  excellence.  He  loved  children,  he 
revered  them  both  for  what  they  are  and  what 
they  suggest — simplicity,  purity,  innocence, 
nearness  to  God,  all  the  qualities  the  lack  of 
whose  blessed  influence  we  so  sorely  feel  as  we 
become  hardened  and  seared  in  the  fierce  strug 
gle  with  the  world,  till,  finally,  the  early  fra 
grance  and  freshness  of  heart  and  soul  have 
passed  away,  like  the  sweetness  and  beauty  of 
a  flower  when  the  winds  of  winter  have  swept 
over  it,  and  cast  it  from  its  stem.  In  the  tender 
words  of  Whittier — himself  a  poet  who  has 
rightful  claims  to  the  rare  laurels  of  a  "child's 
poet"— 

"We  need   love's  tender  lessons   taught, 

As  only  weakness  can; 
God  hath  his  small  interpreters — 
The  child  must  teach  the  man. 


68  Representative  Southern  Poets 

"We  wander  wide  through  evil  years, 

Our  eyes  of  faith  grow  dim ; 
But  he  is  freshest  from  his  hands, 
And  nearest  unto  Him." 

Yes,  children  are  interpreters,  teachers,  and  "of 
such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven."  Fresh  from 
God's  hands,  and  so  near  to  Him,  why  should 
they  not  teach  us  what  we  are  all  so  apt  to  for 
get — love,  gentleness,  charity,  sincerity,  purity, 
faith.  Do  we  ever  realize  how  hard  it  is  to 
break  the  faith  of  a  child?  Ought  we  not  to 
become  as  one  of  these  little  ones?  Could  we 
ask  a  rarer  gift  from  our  Heavenly  Father  ?  It 
was  in  this  spirit  that  Hayne's  poems  of  and 
for  children  were  written.  Is  it  any  wonder 
"the  children  loved  him"  ?  As  an  example  of 
the  grace  and  pathetic  tenderness  characteristic 
of  Hayne's  verse  on  themes  devoted  to  the  illus 
tration  of  child-life,  or  personally  dedicated, 
and  which  constitutes  a  very  charming  part  of 
the  poet's  complete  wrorks,  the  following  poem 
is  reproduced  here;  it  was  addressed  to  my 
little  daughter,  some  years  before  her  death : 

"A  CHILD'S  HOROSCOPE. 
"To  IDA  M.  HUBNER,  ATLANTA,  GEORGIA. 

"What  is  it  in  her  frank  young  face 
Which,  more  than  beauty,  more  than  grace, 
Holds  in  its  warm  and  strong  control 
The  instinctive  homage  of  my  soul? 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  69 

"A  spirit  constant,  faithful,  high, 
Shines  deeply  in  her  earnest  eye, 
And  ah !  her  tranquil  lips  are  fraught 
With  talismans  of  truthful  thought! 

"Child-woman !  hath  her  morn  too  soon 
Been  touched  by  prophecies  of  noon? 
For  something  sad,  tho'  scarce  defined, 
Girds  the  grave  bastions  of  her  mind ; 

"But,  rippling  thro'  the  outworks'  fold, 
Her  life  is  still  a  stream  of  gold; 
A  stream  that,  with  harmonious  sound, 
Shall  force,  some  day,  its  narrow  bound, 

"And  in  its  tide  of  stainless  flame, 
May  mirror  the  clear  stars  of  fame ! 
Dear  child !  the  genius  of  your  birth 
Is  winged  by  heaven,  if  wrought  of  earth ; 

"A  Saxon  steadfastness  of  will, 
A  bucklered  heart  to  conquer  ill ; 
A  calm  defiance  turned  on  those, 
Who,  unprovoked,  would  be  your  foes  ; 

"A  temper  brave,  and  unsubdued 
By  passion's  fierce  and  fiery  brood — 
These  heavenly  charms  shall  vanquish  strife, 
And  round  with  peace  a  noble  life ! 

"Behold  your  horoscope !    But  now, 
Darling!    I  kiss  your  lifted  brow, 
And  feel  your  placid  pulses  rest 
Sweetly,  as  on  a  father's  breast ! 

"Your  little  hand  you  fold  in  mine, 
And  o'er  us  steals  a  calm  divine, 
Wherein  the  past  and  future  fade ! — 
I  only  know,  my  loving  maid, 
Is  here — (alas,  that  we  must  part!)  — 
Is  here,  clasped  closely,  heart  to  heart !" 


70          Representative  Southern  Poets 

Thirty  of  his  poems  for  children  are  to  be 
found  in  the  complete  edition  of  his  poems 
(Lothrop  &  Co.,  Boston,  1882). 

Six  years  after  Hayne's  death  his  faithful 
wife  followed  him  into  the  realm  of  everlasting 
happiness.  These  intervening  years  were  de 
voted  by  her  to  his  memory,  and  to  plans  for 
the  extension  and  perpetuation  of  his  fame,  and 
to  motherly  duties  in  behalf  of  an  only  child, 
their  gifted  son  William.  A  nobler  woman 
than  Mrs.  Hayne  never  lived.  Her  admiration 
for  her  distinguished  husband  amounted  almost 
to  worship.  Never  were  two  souls  more  com 
pletely  blended,  never  did  two  hearts  more 
truly  "beat  as  one."  She  was  the  poet's 
guardian  angel,  his  counsellor,  his  inspiration. 
Their  married  life  was  always  an  exquisitely 
sweet  and  tender  love-song,  sometimes  swelling 
into  the  majestic  music  of  an  anthem  rising 
far  above  the  roar  and  riot  of  the  world,  some 
times  it  became  a  battle-hymn,  ringing  trium 
phantly  amid  the  terrible  conflict  with  adversity 
in  its  crudest  shapes,  against  which  they  were 
forced  to  battle  for  years.  It  is  of  her  he  sings 
in  his  "Love's  Autumn." 

I  shall  not  attempt  an  elaborate  criticism  of 
the  qualities  of  Mr.  Hayne's  genius,  or  endeavor 
to  define  his  standing  relative  to  other  poets. 
In  this  connection  the  words  of  Mrs.  Preston, 
with  which  she  concludes  her  sketch  of  him,  will 
be  appropriate : 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  71  / 

"It  were  superfluous  to  enter  upon  any  criti 
cism  of  his  poems,  nor  is  this  the  place  for  it. 
They  are  left  with  the  reader  who,  if  he  cannot 
of  himself  find  therein  the  aromatic  freshness 
of  the  woods — the  swaying  incense  of  the 
Cathedral-like  aisles  of  pines;  the  sough  of 
dying  summer  winds ;  the  glint  of  lovely  pools, 
and  the  brooding  notes  of  leaf-hidden  mocking 
birds — would  not  be  able  to  discern  them,  how 
ever  carefully  the  critic  might  point  them  out." 

He  was  honored  by  the  warm  friendship  and 
the  candid  admiration  of  some  of  the  most 
famous  literary  men  of  Europe,  and  of  our  own 
country.  Among  his  constant  correspondents 
abroad  were  Charles  Reade,  Black,  Mackey, 
Blackmore,  Wilkie  Collins,  Marston,  and  Swin 
burne.  Tennyson  spoke  of  him  as  the  finest 
sonnet-writer  in  America.  Grimm,  of  Ger 
many,  praised  him  enthusiastically,  and  Victor 
Hugo  placed  him  in  the  front  rank  of  American 
poets.  He  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Holmes, 
Stoddard,  Whittier,  and  Longfellow,  and  occa 
sionally  was  an  honored  guest  in  their  homes. 

In  Hayne,  indisputably,  the  man  was  the 
poet.  "His  manhood  was  reflected  in  his  poetry. 
Gentle,  modest,  refined,  sensitive  he  was,  but 
he  was  also  brave  as  Caesar.  In  morals,  as  in 
art,  his  standards  were  the  highest,  and  he 
lived  fully  up  to  these.  He  was  the  friend  of  the 
poor  and  lowly,  the  champion  of  the  oppressed. 
He  never  turned  a  beggar  from  his  door,  and 


72  Representative  Southern  Poets 

would  share  his  last  crust  of  bread  with  a 
hungry  tramp.  Though  sometimes  imposed 
upon,  he  would  not  allow  his  faith  in  humanity 
to  be  shaken  thereby,  and  always  had  a  good 
word  to  say  in  behalf  of  the  most  abject  of  his 
fellow-creatures. 

In  his  art  he  was  almost  painfully  sensitive 
to  the  obligations  imposed  upon  him  by  his 
Creator,  in  bestowing  upon  him  the  sacred  gift 
of  Song,  through  which  he  interpreted  the  mys 
teries  of  Nature,  and  portrayed  the  heart  and 
soul-life  of  his  fellow-men.  The  strongest 
and  most  beautiful  of  all  the  fine  qualities  of 
his  character  was  his  Christian  faith;  his 
immovable  trust  in  the  Saviour  of  the  world; 
his  absolute  belief  in  the  immortality  of  the 
soul.  His  testimony  as  to  the  truth  of  these 
facts,  while  on  his  death-bed,  was  profoundly 
pathetic  and  eloquent.  Among  his  last  audible 
words  was  a  message  to  his  friend,  the  late 
Philip  Bourke  Marston,  the  blind  English 
poet,  who  did  not  believe  in  the  resurrection. 
Mr.  Hayne  whispered  to  his  wife,  "Give  my 
love  to  Marston — tell  him  to  meet  me  there," 
feebly  pointing  his  finger  heavenward.  "But  he 
does  not  believe.  Shall  I  tell  him  to  believe  in 
Christ,  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life?"  said 
Mrs.  Hayne.  With  intense  earnestness  the 
dying  poet  replied,  "Oh  yes !  Oh  yes !" 

I  shall  never  forget  this  thrilling  scene;  nor 
can  anything  obliterate  the  impression  which 


Paul  Hamilton  rlayne  73 

his  burning  and  inspired  words  made  upon  my 
heart  as  I  sat  by  the  bedside  through  the  long, 
sorrowful  hours  of  that  last  night  of  the  poet's 
life  on  earth ;  and  the  memory  of  the  days  which 
I  was  privileged  to  spend  at  Copse  Hill  is  a 
precious  legacy  to  me. 

Our  correspondence  extended  over  a  period 
of  nearly  sixteen  years.  A  few  extracts  from 
the  poet's  letters  will,  I  trust,  be  found  interest 
ing.  \hey  will  show  his  liberal  spirit ;  his  broad 
views  of  life  and  of  men;  his  keen,  polished 
intellect,  and  his  high  ideals  as  a  poet  and  as  a 
man.  Speaking  of  his  aims  and  motives  in 
poetic  work,  he  writes  : 

'The  older  I  grow,  the  more  truly  I  yearn 
to  come  near  and  to  rouse  the  great  heart  of 
humanity — to  elevate,  comfort,  and  console  the 
lives  of  my  fellow-creatures.  To  illustrate  the 
Beautiful,  to  sing  of  the  Ideal  in  its  loftiest 
phases — these  are  aims  worthy  of  any  poet ;  but 
to  bind  the  broken  heart,  or  stimulate  the 
despondent  spirit,  or  even  to  celebrate  the 
triumphs  of  homely  Toil  (so  that  Toil  shall  be 
winged  for  future  stronger  efforts)  are  nobler 
achievements  still." 

Again  he  says : 

"In  literary  immortality — except  as  materi 
ally  modified  in  meaning — I  have  no  faith.  A 
few  clarion  names  and  golden  threads  of  song, 
may  truly  survive  for  a  long  time,  but  their  term 


74          Representative  Southern  Poets 

of  existence  must  also  arrive.  Verily,  as  old 
Shirley  hath  it : 

"  'Only  the  actions  of  the  just 

Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust;' 

and  I  am  by  no  means  certain,  sometimes, 
whether  even  this  holds  good,  except  in  its  high 
est  spiritual  sense.  How  many  a  great  and  good 
man  has  gone  to  his  grave,  bedewed  by  a 
nation's  tears — to  be  comparatively  forgotten 
in  a  few  decades." 

On  hearing  of  the  death  of  Longfellow  he 
paid  this  noble  tribute  to  the  poet's  memory : 

"The  world  loved  that  man,  as  few  of  our 
kind  have  ever  been  loved  before;  and  the 
reason  is  obvious — Longfellow  was,  what  not 
too  many  are  nowadays,  a  genuine  and  perfect 
gentleman !  Despite  a  fame  which  had  spread 
over  three- fourths  of  our  globe ;  despite  wealth, 
position,  the  flattery  of  unnumbered  multitudes, 
often  growing  into  adulation,  he  kept  both  the 
whiteness  and  the  humility  of  his  spirit,  recog 
nizing,  like  Tennyson,  the  comparative  noth 
ingness  of  mortal  renown,  and  hearing  always 
the  'roll/  the  awful  'roll  of  ages/  And  he  was 
equally  considerate  to  the  humblest  and  loftiest 
of  mankind." 

Referring  to  the  untimely  death  of  Sidney 
Lanier,  which  affected  him  profoundly,  and  for 
whose  splendid  genius  he  had  great  admiration, 
he  writes : 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  75 

"He  had  so  much  work  to  do,  it  does  seem 
mysterious  that  he  should  have  been  thus  sud 
denly  called  away.  Yet,  biography  is  full  of 
just  such  cases.  We  dwell  in  a  world  of  riddles, 
'seeing  through  a  glass  darkly.'  One  must 
either  trust  in  a  higher  Power,  unquestioningly, 
or  simply  despair!  For  my  part,  I  prefer  to 
trust." 

In  another  letter  occurs  the  following  tender 
allusion  to  his  noble  wife: 

"Indeed  I  should  have  been  next  to  nothing 
without  her,  and  there  is  not  a  day,  nor  an  hour, 
wherein  I  fail  to  feel  my  own  unworthiness  by 
the  side  of  her  absolute  unselfish  goodness  and 
elevation  of  character,  and  her  devoted  love." 

Alluding  to  his  constant  physical  suffering, 
he  says,  in  a  letter  written  many  years  ago : 

"Yet,  thanks  to  our  merciful  God,  I  have 
determination  and  vim  sufficient  to  enable  me 
to  labor  in  my  vocation,  and  in  harness  (intel 
lectual  harness,  at  all  events)  I  shall  die!  My 
constant  prayer  is  somewhat  like  that  of  the 
old  Norseman,  who  beseeched  Odin  to  save 
him  from  a  'cow's  death' ;  i.  e.,  the  long  suffer 
ing  of  the  bed-ridden  invalid.  Nevertheless, 
God's  will  be  done." 

Toward  the  latter  years  of  his  life  the  feel 
ing  that  his  death  would  be  sudden  grew  upon 
him  constantly.  He  concludes  a  hurriedly 
written  note  to  me  as  follows : 


76          Representative  Southern  Poets 

"I  am  a  sick  man,  and  mark  my  word,  I  will 
die  some  day  suddenly.  What  matter?  My 
work  is  finished  in  this  world." 

It  was  doubtless  while  in  the  shadow  of 
moods  like  this  that  he  wrote  the  touchingly 
sad  yet  lofty  and  serene  lyric  entitled  "In  Har 
bor." 

Here  is  a  bit  of  excellent  criticism  on  an 
author  who  occupies  a  warm  place  in  the  hearts 
of  all  who  admire  pure  morality  and  conse 
crated  love,  combined  with  genius — speaking 
of  Miss  Mitford  he  says : 

"I,  too,  am  very  fond  of  her  as  an  author,  and 
I  may  add  as  a  woman  of  unquestionable 
genius,  and  the  noblest,  pluckiest  character.  Do 
you  know  of  anything  in  biography  more  ad 
mirable  than  her  attitude  toward  her  father? 
The  tender,  unselfish — one  may  say  heroic — 
affection  which  caused  her  to  surround  one  of 
the  shallowest,  vainest,  most  nauseously  egotis 
tical  of  men,  with  the  glamour  of  profoundest 
admiration  and  loving  sympathy,  may  be  ridi 
culed  by  some  as  mere  blind  weakness,  but  to 
my  mind,  it  was  beautiful  exceedingly,  con 
sidered  as  the  direct  outcome  of  her  own  incom 
parable  feminine  sweetness  and  grace.  Her 
letters,  and  the  answers  to  them,  in  the  volume 
you  refer  to,  constitute  a  remarkably  valuable 
series.  Miss  Mitford's  critical  instincts  were 
generally  correct,  as  witness  her  invariable  and 
hearty  appreciation  of  Walter  Scott,  and  other 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  77 

first-class  writers;  and  yet,  it  is  true  that  she 
blundered  awfully  sometimes — what  could  be 
more  amazingly  shallow,  and  a  trifle  imperti 
nent,  than  her  depreciation  of  Thackeray,  es 
pecially  of  his  chef  d'ceuvre,  Esmond?  Miss 
Mitford's  verse  has  never  struck  me  as  pos 
sessing  the  qualities  of  perpetuity;  but  her 
'Village'  and  prose-works  of  a  similar  scope, 
are  worthy  to  rank  with  the  ablest  performances 
of  that  kind  in  our  language." 

The  following  philosophic  reflection  on  the 
influence  of  domestic  affinity  is  well  worth 
studying,  as  it  furnishes,  perhaps,  a  partial 
answer  to  the  question  as  to  the  cause  of  con 
nubial  discord,  quite  frequently  found  in  the 
domestic  history  of  some  of  the  world's  great 
est  geniuses : 

"Ah,  me,"  he  writes,  "how  many  a  man  of 
genius  (especially  esthetic  genius)  has  been 
ruined  by  the  lack  of  household  help  and  under 
standing!  I  firmly  believe  that  even  Byron 
would  have  developed  into  quite  another  and  a 
nobler  character  if  his  consort  had  been  a  differ 
ent  woman.  She  had  excellent  qualities,  no 
doubt,  but  absolute  Cimmerian  darkness  en 
veloped  her  mind,  so  far  as  her  knowledge  of 
Byron's  nature  and  peculiar  capabilities  was 
concerned.  For  instance,  she  was  densely, 
impenetrably  stupid  in  regard  to  all  display  of 
humor  or  wit,  and  her  husband  was  thus 
tempted  to  humbug  her  by  all  kinds  of  stories 


78          Representative  Southern  Poets 

about  himself,  his  abnormal  wickedness  and 
tremendous  depravity,  examples  of  which  (of 
course  all  untrue  and  invented  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment)  Madame  implicitly  believed,  and 
forty  years  after  poured  into  the  ears  of  Mrs. 
Beecher  Stowe." 

His  opinion  of  Aldrich's  poetry  is  very 
candidly  expressed: 

"For  Aldrich's  art,  indeed,  I  have  the  pro- 
foundest  admiration.  He  is  a  model  in  this 
respect.  There  is  a  lamentable  lack,  however, 
in  his  poetry  of  the  grander  elements  of  emotion 
and  passion.  Seldom,  if  ever,  do  his  lyrics  take 
hold  of  the  deeper  strings  of  one's  heart.  Here 
in  Lowell  towers  above  him;  so  does  Long 
fellow  ;  so  again  do  Whittier,  Stoddard,  and  not 
a  few  others,  yet  Aldrich's  self-knowledge,  his 
unerring  consciousness  of  his  own  limitations, 
seems  in  itself  genius." 

Bret  Harte,  as  a  poet,  did  not  impress  him 
favorably ;  he  says  : 

"Bret  Harte,  no  doubt,  possesses  a  thin  vein 
of  genius ;  but  it  appears  to  me  he  has  already 
nearly  worked  it  out.  His  poems  (the  serious 
ones)  are  chiefly  echoes,  and,  as  for  his  humor 
ous  verse  (the  'Heathen  Chinee/  etc.)  I  think 
him  absurdly  overrated." 

Speaking  of  Maurice  Thompson's  "Songs  of 
Fair  Weather,"  he  says: 

"I  am  familiar  with  Thompson's  poetry,  and 
consider  it  very  true  and  admirable  verse; 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  79 

chiefly  of  the  wholesome,  outdoor,  realistic  sort ; 
it  is  full  of  breezes  and  fragrant  air,  and  the 
lusty  revelry  of  wave  and  wind.  On  occasions 
he  can  be  delicately  imaginative  and  artistic, 
as  witness  his  really  exquisite  poem  'Diana.' ' 

Of  the  South's  most  popular  author,  the  ever 
delightful  "Uncle  Remus,"  admired  by  all  the 
world — Joel  Chandler  Harris — he  writes  : 

"I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  of  Harris's  suc 
cess.  He  richly  deserves  it.  His  genius, 
especially  in  the  delineation  of  the  negro 
character,  is  absolute.  I  predicted  his  success." 

He  calls  Mrs.  Margaret  J.  Preston  the  most 
gifted  of  the  Southern  female  poets,  and  says : 

"Her  heart  is  as  warm  and  cordial  as  her 
mind  is  comprehensive,  brilliant,  and  creative. 
The  South,  I  am  sorry  to  admit,  does  not  even 
begin  to  appreciate  her  genius,  nor  what  she 
has  done  for  her  section  in  art." 

He  had  an  irrepressible  longing  to  visit 
Europe,  particularly  England,  and  behold,  face 
to  face,  his  friends  there.  "The  utter  sunsetting 
of  my  last  hope  of  ever  going  abroad,"  as  he 
expressed  it,  depressed  him  greatly.  "I  thought 
this  hope  had  died  previously,"  he  writes,  "but 
I  was  mistaken.  Only  now  has  it  given  up  its 
final  breath,  and  the  pang  is  bitter.  Let  me 
not  complain,  however.  Fate  seems  to  have 
determined  that  I  shall  die,  as  I  have  lived  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century,  among  the  solitudes  of 
the  Pine  Barrens.  I  have  endured  many  things 
— I  can  endure  this." 


80          Representative  Southern  Poets 

But  the  solitudes  of  the  Pine  Barrens,  to 
which  Fate  had  exiled  him,  these  apparently 
lonely  regions,  were,  nevertheless,  sources  of 
spiritual  delight  to  him,  and  under  the  trans 
figuring  glamour  of  poesy  were  pictured  by  him 
as  landscapes  of  enchanting  loveliness ;  witness, 
for  instance,  his  fine  and  picturesque  poem 
descriptive  of  this  very  same  wearisome  waste, 
when  illuminated  by  the  glory  of  sunset;  it  is 
in  his  best  vein  and  is  called  "In  the  Pine  Bar 
rens."  This  poem  offers  another  illustration  of 
the  fact  that  there  is  something  divinely  power 
ful  in  "the  imagination  and  the  poet's  dream," 
a  power  which  can  transform  a  monotonous 
waste  into  a  paradise,  and  change  even  the  com 
monest  things,  frequently,  into  "a  thing  of 
beauty  and  a  joy  forever." 

He  was  exceedingly  fond  of  profound 
scholastic  studies.  "At  present,"  he  writes,  "I 
am  studying  certain  rather  advanced  books 
upon  a  very  old  and  favorite  subject  of  mine — 
astronomy.  What  a  topic !  Growing  in  fasci 
nation  as  one  advances  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  Cosmos.  But  the  fascination  becomes  pain 
ful,  nay,  awful,  at  last.  To  confront  the  two 
infinites  of  Time  and  Space,  is  to  make  the  soul 
reel  upon  its  pedestal !  Then,  this  earth  of  ours 
— which  for  ages  man  regarded  with  such  enor 
mous  complacency  as  the  center  of  Creation — 
turns  out  to  be  a  miserable  little  hundreth-rate 
pigmy  of  a  planet;  a  mere  revolving  mite,  half 


Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  81 

lost,  it  would  seem,  among  the  more  majestic 
worlds.  There  are  some  startling  questions  in 
this  connection  touching  Theology;  but,  mark 
you,  the  Omnipotent  is  also  the  Omnipresent. 
Physical  dimensions  are  as  nothing,  possibly, 
in  His  eye. 

"Where  dwells  the  Eternal?    Past  Uranian  heights, 
All  heights  of  grandeur,  and  all  gulfs  of  gloom? 
Yea !  but  He  dwells  no  less  where  April  lights 
Dance  round  the  daisy,  and  the  jessamine  bloom." 

Some  years  ago  the  poet's  gifted  son,  Wil 
liam  Hayne,  whose  book  of  charming  poems 
entitled  "Sylvan  Lyrics"  has  given  him  a  con 
spicuous  place  among  our  native  poets,  in 
an  interesting  magazine  article  described  his 
father's  methods  of  composition ;  among  other 
things  he  said : 

"The  poetic  impulse  frequently  came  to  him 
so  spontaneously  as  to  demand  immediate 
utterance,  and  he  would  turn  to  the  fly-leaf  of 
the  book  in  hand,  or  on  a  neighboring  shelf,  and 
his  pencil  would  soon  record  the  lines,  or  frag 
ments  of  lines,  that  claimed  release  from  his 
brain/' 

I  can  bear  witness  to  the  truth  of  this  state 
ment.  On  one  of  my  visits  to  Copse  Hill,  Mr. 
Hayne  presented  me  with  a  copy  of  Swinburne's 
"Atalanta  in  Calydon,"  which  the  author  had 
sent  him  from  London.  Some  weeks  afterward, 
while  I  was  turning  the  leaves  of  the  book,  I 
found  on  the  inside  of  the  cover  the  first 


82          Representative  Southern  Poets 

draughts  of  one  of  Mr.  Hayne's  poems,  written 
with  a  pencil.  The  many  erasures,  interlinea 
tions,  and  changes  in  words  made  the  reading  of 
the  lines  a  very  difficult  matter.  Evidently 
while  the  poet  was  walking  to  and  fro  in  his 
little  library,  or  under  the  trees,  with  this  book 
in  his  hand,  the  inspiration  came  upon  him,  and 
with  his  pencil  he  rapidly  jotted  down  and  then 
hastily  revised  the  first  draught  of  one  of  his 
beautiful  sonnets. 

In  the  spring  of  1889  the  "Paul  Hayne 
Memorial  Chapel"  was  completed  at  Grove- 
town,  and  dedicated  with  appropriate  cere 
monies.  The  church  is  situated  in  a  grove 
of  pines,  not  far  from  Copse  Hill.  It  was 
erected  with  funds  contributed  by  friends  and 
admirers  of  the  poet  in  this  country  and  in 
Europe.  Certainly  no  American  poet  has  had 
a  more  beautiful  tribute  paid  to  his  memory,  or 
one  more  deserved. 


FACING     PAGE 


HENRY  TIMROD 

Poet !  if  still,  where  now  thy  spirit  is, 

Thou  mayest  be  permitted  to  look  back 

Upon  thine  earth-life's  brief,  but  thorny  track, 

So  stained  with  blood-drops  of  thine  agonies, 

Methinks  a  glint  of  joy,  not  all  unmeet 

Even  for  the  glory  of  thy  heavenly  state, 

Thrills  thee,  to  see  the  world  at  last,  though  late, 

Laying  her  love-gift  gladly  at  thy  feet ; 

Yes,  thou  hast  triumphed ;  happy  soul !  look  down, 

Behold,  how  thy  life's  sorrow-darkened  days 

Have  turned  to  stars,  that  glorify  thy  grave, 

And  how,  to  pay  for  gifts  thy  genius  gave, 

Within  this  book,  as  in  a  shrine,  men  place 

The  rarest  jewels  of  thy  poet's  crown. 

(Written  in  a  volume  of  the  Memorial  edition  of 
Timrod's  poems.) 

Henry  Timrod,  whom  Richard  Henry  Stod- 
dard  called  "the  ablest  poet  that  the  South  had 
yet  produced,"  and  of  whom  Paul  Hayne,  in 
still  ampler  praise,  said  that  he  was  "one  of  the 
truest  and  sweetest  singers  this  country  has 
given  to  the  world,"  was  born  in  Charleston, 
South  Carolina,  December  8,  1829.  His  father, 
William  Henry  Timrod,  of  German  descent, 
was  a  highly  esteemed  citizen,  noted  for  the 
excellence  of  his  character  and  cultivated  intel 
lect.  He  was  also  a  poet  of  ability,  and  some  of 
his  published  poems  won  public  favor;  of  his 


84          Representative  Southern  Poets 

"Ode  to  Time/'  Washington  Irving  said,  "Tom 
Moore  could  have  written  no  finer  lyric." 
Evidently  Henry  inherited  from  his  father,  to 
some  extent,  his  genius  for  poetry.  His 
mother,  of  Scotch-Irish  descent,  was  a  woman 
of  liberal  culture,  and  most  amiable  character. 
She  was  passionately  fond  of  Nature  in  all  its 
moods  and  manifestations,  and  it  was  from 
her  that  the  future  singer  received  that  sensi 
tive  taste  for  the  beautiful,  the  love  of  the  charm 
of  out-door  life,  the  ever- ready  power  to  inter 
pret  and  express  the  meaning,  the  mysterious 
suggestiveness  of  Nature,  which  distinguishes 
Timrod's  poetry. 

Timrod  received  his  primary  education  in 
one  of  the  best  schools  of  his  native  city.  One 
of  his  schoolmates  was  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne, 
who,  as  his  intimate  and  life-long  friend,  gives 
testimony  to  Timrod's  fine  character,  and  to 
the  brilliancy  of  his  genius,  in  the  memoir  Paul 
Hayne  wrote  for  the  volume  of  Timrod's  col 
lected  poems,  published  in  1873. 

Timrod  was  a  diligent  and  ambitious  student, 
and  when  about  seventeen  years  of  age  he 
entered  the  University  of  Georgia,  at  Athens. 
His  poetical  powers  were  exercised  even  then, 
especially  in  love-songs,  which  found  their  way 
into  print  chiefly  through  the  columns  of  a 
Charleston  journal. 

Because  of  the  inability  of  his  father  to  sup 
port  him  longer  at  the  University,  and  partly 


Henry  Timrod  85 

on  account  of  his  delicate  health,  Timrod  was 
forced  to  leave  the  University  before  he  could 
graduate.  He  then  began  the  study  of  law  at 
Charleston,  in  the  office  of  the  distinguished 
jurist,  James  L.  Pettigru,  but  soon  found  out 
that  he  was  not  fitted  for  a  profession  so  uncon 
genial  to  him.  He  gave  up  his  law  studies,  and 
became  a  teacher.  His  duties  as  a  tutor  in  the 
family  of  a  rich  South  Carolina  planter  gave 
him  leisure  to  woo  the  poetic  muse,  and  the  con 
tents  of  a  fine  library  were  also  happily  at  his 
disposal.  At  intervals  he  would  visit  Charles 
ton,  where  he  had  many  warm  friends,  and  a 
choice  circle  of  congenial  spirits  were  always 
delighted  to  have  this  gentle  and  richly  gifted 
youth  in  their  midst. 

In  Russell's  Magazine,  a  distinctively  South 
ern  literary  publication,  which  flourished  for  a 
short  time  in  Charleston,  at  that  period, 
appeared  some  of  Timrod's  best  poems  and  son 
nets.  These  and  some  other  poems  were  finally 
collected  into  a  small  volume  and  published  by 
Ticknor  &  Fields,  of  Boston,  in  1860. 

When  the  war  between  the  States  began  he 
volunteered  his  services  in  defense  of  his  State, 
but  his  enfeebled  health  prevented  him  from 
enduring  the  hardships  of  a  soldier's  life  in 
the  ranks,  and  he  remained  in  Charleston  during 
the  first  year  of  the  war,  busy,  however,  with 
his  pen,  writing  poems  and  songfs  that  fired  the 
hearts  of  his  countrymen  by  their  fervid  patriot- 


86          Representative  Southern  Poets 

ism  and  impassionate  melody,  thus,  as  has  been 
aptly  said,  "Serving  his  country  more  effectu 
ally  with  the  pen  than  he  could  have  served  her 
with  the  sword."  He  then  became  a  war  corre 
spondent  for  the  Charleston  Mercury.  Unable 
to  stand  the  hard  life  of  camps,  he  returned  to 
Columbia,  South  Carolina,  where  he  became 
editor  of  the  South  Carolinian.  He  was  married 
in  1864  to  Miss  Katie  Goodwin,  a  charming 
young  English  lady,  whose  picture,  from  its 
frame  of  jeweled  words,  and  its  background  of 
a  lovely  rural  English  landscape,  smiles  out 
upon  us  in  his  beautiful  idyl  "Katie." 

A  son  blessed  the  union  of  these  two  happy 
hearts,  but  lived  only  a  few  months.  The  blow 
nearly  broke  the  heart  of  the  poet.  From  that 
time  on  disaster  "followed  fast  and  faster,"  and 
to  his  domestic  affliction  and  the  constantly 
increasing  physical  debility — the  insidious  un 
dermining  of  consumption — were  added  the 
culminating  horrors  of  war.  The  Federal  army 
was  devastating  the  South.  Columbia,  the 
capital  of  South  Carolina,  utterly  undefended, 
was  taken  and  burned  by  order  of  General 
Sherman.  When  the  simoon  of  disaster  had 
passed  over  the  doomed  city  its  inhabitants  were 
left  to  their  fate,  penniless,  and  wandering  amid 
the  smoking  ruins  of  their  homes,  trying  to 
save  what  they  could  from  the  wreck,  with 
starvation  staring  them  in  the  face  daily.  In 
common  with  his  fellow-citizens,  Timrod  suf- 


Henry  Timrod  87 

fered  woefully.  Nothing  can  more  vividly 
describe  the  situation  than  the  occasional  letters 
he  wrote  to  his  friend  Hayne.  They  are  full 
of  pathos  and  tears,  and  the  grim  humor  which 
now  and  then  flashes  through  the  lines  only 
adds  to  the  sombreness  and  terror  of  the  pic 
ture.  In  one  of  his  letters  he  says : 

"We  have  lived  for  a  long  period,  and  are 
still  living,  on  the  proceeds  of  the  gradual  sale 
of  furniture  and  silver  plate.  We  have — let  me 
see — yes,  we  have  eaten  two  silver  pitchers, 
one  or  two  dozen  silver  forks,  several  sofas,  in 
numerable  chairs,  and  a  huge  bedstead !  In  a 
forlorn  hope  I  forwarded  some  poems  to  North 
ern  periodicals,  and  in  every  instance  they  were 
coldly  declined. 

"As  for  supporting  myself  and  large  family 
— wife,  mother,  sister  and  nieces,  by  literary 
work — 'tis  utterly  preposterous.  Little  Jack 
Horner  who  sang  for  his  supper  and  got  his 
plum-cake,  was  a  far  more  lucky  minstrel  than 
I  am.  To  confess  the  truth,  my  dear  Paul,  I  not 
only  feel  that  I  can  write  no  more  verse,  but  I 
am  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  fate  of  what  I 
have  already  composed.  I  would  consign  every 
line  of  it  to  eternal  oblivion  for — one  hundred 
dollars  in  hand." 

In  another  letter  he  says : 

"You  ask  me  to  tell  you  my  story  for  the  last 
year.  I  can  embody  it  all  in  a  few  words :  beg 
gary,  starvation,  death,  bitter  grief,  utter  want 
of  hope !" 


88  Representative  Southern  Poets 

It  is  but  justice  to  say  that  the  unfortunate 
poet  still  had  many  warm  friends  and  neighbors, 
who  did  all  they  could  to  help  him  and  to  cheer 
him  by  their  sympathy,  sharing  the  few  re 
sources  that  were  still  left  to  them  with  him, 
and  with  kindness  born  of  common  calamity, 
nobly  endured,  made  the  declining  days  of  the 
suffering  and  dying  poet  as  bearable  as  possible. 

With  an  occasional  feeble  effort  to  better 
his  condition  by  suitable  employment,  which 
resulted  only  in  temporary  relief,  and  occasional 
brief  visits  to  his  friend  Hayne,  at  Copse  Hill, 
and  trips  to  Charleston,  the  grim  story  draws 
to  an  end.  His  hemorrhages  became  more  fre 
quent,  and  he  was  soon  confined  to  his  bed. 
Recovery  was  impossible.  He  met  the  fateful 
messenger  Death  with  resignation  and  the 
fortitude  of  a  Christian.  His  loved  ones  waited 
tenderly  by  his  bedside.  In  Hayne's  memoir 
the  last  hours  of  the  dying  poet  are  touchingly 
described.  To  his  sister  he  said : 

"Do  you  remember  that  little  poem  of  mine : 

"Somewhere  on   this   earthly  planet, 

In  the  dust  of  flowers  to  be, 
In  the  dew-drop,  in  the  sunshine, 
Waits  a  solemn  hour  for  me — 

Now  that  hour,  which  then  seemed  so  far  away, 
has  come.  May  I  be  able  to  say,  thanks  be  to 
God  who  giveth  us  the  victory,  through  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ." 


Henry  Timrod  89 

The  prophecy  contained  in  the  poem  came 
true.  As  the  dawn-light  of  the  eighth  day  of 
October,  1867,  began  to  pour  its  rosy  splendor 
into  the  room,  the  soul  of  the  poet  passed  away, 
and  the  aching  heart  was  at  rest  forever. 

His  remains  were  buried  by  the  side  of  his 
infant  son's,  in  Trinity  churchyard,  at  Colum 
bia.  In  the  words  of  Paul  Hayne: 

"So  now  I  leave  him,  high  exalted,  far 
Beyond  all  memory  of  earth's  guilt  or  guile ; 
Hark!  'tis  his  voice  of  cheer, 

Dropping,  methinks,  from  some  mysterious  star: 
His  face  I  see,  and  on  his  face — a  smile !" 

Timrod,  as  a  true  son  of  the  South,  naturally 
was  her  ardent  eulogist,  and  the  chivalric 
champion  of  her  cause,  in  weal  or  woe.  The 
poems  and  songs  written  by  him  during  the 
civil  war,  can  be  matched  but  rarely  in  the 
effusions  of  his  contemporary  bards,  and  cer 
tainly  none  excel  his  in  depth  and  fervor  of  feel 
ing,  in  the  high  flight  of  fancy,  and  the  bold, 
clarion-clear  music  of  the  vivid  lines.  To 
justify  this  assertion  let  me  give  here,  for 
instance,  his  frequently  quoted 

"CAROLINA. 

"The  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands, 
Thy  pines  give  shelter  to  his  bands, 
Thy  sons  stand  by  with  idle  hands, 
Carolina ! 

"He  breathes  at  ease  thy  airs  of  balm, 
He  scorns  the  lances  of  thy  palm ; 
Oh !  who  shall  break  thy  craven  calm, 
Carolina ! 


90  Representative  Southern  Poets 

"Thy  ancient  fame  is  growing  dim, 
A  spot  is  on  thy  garment's  rim ; 
Give  to  the  winds  thy  battle  hymn, 
Carolina ! 

"Call  on  thy  children  of  the  hill, 
Wake  swamp  and  river,  coast  and  rill, 
Rouse  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  skill, 
Carolina ! 

"Cite  wealth  and  science,  trade  and  art, 
Touch  with  thy  fire  the  cautious  mart, 
And  pour  thee  through  the  people's  heart, 
Carolina ! 

"Till  even  the  coward  spurns  his  fears, 
And  all  thy  fields,  and  fens,  and  meres, 
Shall  bristle  like  thy  palm,  with  spears, 
Carolina ! 

"Hold  up  the  glories  of  thy  dead ; 
Say  how  thy  elder  children  bled, 
And  point  to  Eutaw's  battle-bed, 
Carolina ! 

"Tell  how  the  patriot's  soul  was  tried, 
And  what  his  dauntless  breast  defied ; 
How  Rutledge  ruled,  and  Laurens  died, 
Carolina ! 

"Cry !  till  thy  summons,  heard  at  last, 
Shall  fall,  like  Marion's  bugle-blast, 
Re-echoed  from  the  haunted  past, 
Carolina ! 

"I  hear  a  murmur,  as  of  waves 
That  grope  their  way  through  sunless  caves, 
Like  bodies  struggling  in  their  graves, 
Carolina ! 

"And  now  it  deepens ;  slow  and  grand 
It  swells,  as,  rolling  to  the  land, 
An  ocean  broke  upon  the  strand, 
Carolina ! 


Henry  Timrod  91 


"Shout !  let  it  reach  the  startled  Huns ! 
And  roar  with  all  thy  festal  guns ! 
It  is  the  answer  of  thy  sons, 
Carolina ! 

"They  will  not  wait  to  hear  thee  call ; 
From  Sachem's  head  to  Sumter's  wall 
Resounds  the  voice  of  hut  and  hall, 
Carolina ! 

"No !  thou  hast  not  a  stain,  they  say, 
Or  none  save  what  the  battle-day 
Shall  wash  in  seas  of  blood  away, 
Carolina ! 

"Thy  skirts,  indeed,  the  foe  may  part, 
Thy  robe  be  pierced  with  sword  and  dart, 
They  shall  not  touch  thy  noble  heart, 
Carolina ! 

"Ere  thou  shalt  own  the  tyrant's  thrall, 
Ten  times  ten  thousand  men  must  fall; 
Thy  corpse  may  harken  to  his  call, 
Carolina ! 

"When  by  thy  bier,  in-  mournful  throngs, 
The  women  chant  thy  mortal  wrongs, 
'Twill  be  their  own  funereal  songs, 
Carolina ! 

"From  thy  dead  breast,  by  ruffians  trod, 
No  helpless  child  shall  look  to  God; 
All  shall  be  safe  beneath  the  sod, 
Carolina ! 

"Girt  with  such  wills  to  do  and  bear, 
Assured  in  right,  and  mailed  in  prayer, 
Thou  wilt  not  bow  thee  to  despair, 
Carolina ! 

"Throw  thy  bold  banner  to  the  breeze ! 
Front  with  thy  ranks  the  threatening  seas, 
Like  thine  own  proud  armorial  trees, 
Carolina ! 


92  Representative  Southern  Poets 


"Fling  down  thy  gauntlet  to  the  Huns, 
And  roar  the  challenge  from  thy  guns ; 
Then  leave  the  future  to  thy  sons, 
Carolina !" 

By  the  way,  where  shall  one  find  a  finer, 
loftier,  more  nobly  conceived  stanza  in  all  poetic 
literature  than  the  tenth  one  in  "Carolina"? 
Even  the  present  generation,  looking-  backward 
over  the  long  years  that  have  passed — looking 
dispassionately  back  upon  the  civil  war  period 
— even  the  busy  men  and  women  of  to-day, 
must  feel  a  strong  thrill  of  emotion,  a  quicken 
ing  of  the  pulse,  while  reading  lines  that  appear 
to  be  surcharged  with  electrical  force;  whole 
stanzas  seem  to  flash  lightning  and  to  roar 
thunder,  like  a  storm  in  the  Tropics.  But  only 
those  who  have  personal  recollections  of  these 
tremendous  times  can  know  what  a  battle-song, 
such  as  Timrod's  "Carolina,"  or  other  impas 
sioned  lyrics  of  our  Southern  poets  of  the  war, 
really  meant  to  the  people  of  the  South.  To 
these  people  there  was  not  one  word  or  line  of 
exaggeration  in  any  of  them.  Every  sentiment, 
every  phrase  and  simile  was  applauded  as  true. 
Every  word  and  statement  had  the  force  of  a 
fact.  Their  poets,  far  more  than  their  orators, 
voiced  their  deepest,  their  highest  thoughts,  and 
their  influence  was  the  greatest,  at  home  or  in 
the  field.  Among  these  poet-voices  none  sang 
in  bolder,  clearer,  or  more  moving  strains  than 
Timrod's  reverberant  voice. 


Henry  Timrod  93 

Of  all  the  hundreds  of  poets  who  have 
hymned  the  praise  of  Spring,  which  of  them  has 
sung  more  exquisitely  the  charms  of  the  season 
than  Timrod?  It  is  the  spring  of  the  South, 
and  the  undertone  of  sadness  in  the  closing 
verses  adds  a  divine  pathos  to  the  picture : 

"SPRING. 

"Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air, 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair; 
Spring,  with  her  golden  sun  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

"Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

"In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest-tree 
The  blood  is  all  a-glee, 

And  there's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

"Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  winter  in  the  land, 
Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn. 

"Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 
That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  autumn  corn. 

"As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

"Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems, 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala-day, 
The  forehead  of  a  Fay. 


94  Representative  Southern  Poets 

"In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 
The  crocus  breaking  earth ; 

And  near  the  snow-drop's  tender  white  and  green, 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

"But  many  gleams  and  shadows  needs  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 

And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamoured  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

"Still  there's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

"At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 

"Some  wondrous  pageant ;  and  you  scarce  would  start 
If,  from  a  beech's  heart, 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 
'Behold  me !    I  am  May  !' 

"Ah !  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 
With  such  a  blessed  time? 
Who  in  the  west-wind's  aromatic  breath 
Could  hear  the  call  of  death? 

"Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  spring  awake 
The  voice  of  wood  and  brake, 

Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  all  her  tranquil  charms, 
A  million  men  to  arms. 

"There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  her  sunlit  rains, 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around, 
Can  summon  from  its  ground. 

"Oh !  standing  on  this  desecrated  mould, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring,  kneeling  on  the  sod. 


Henry  Timrod  95 

"And  calling,  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills, 
Upon  the  ancient  hills 

To  fall  and  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves." 

The  ode  to  commemorate  the  decoration  with 
flowers  of  the  graves  of  Confederate  soldiers  in 
Magnolia  cemetery,  at  Charleston,  written  in 
1867,  is  one  of  the  finest  in  the  language,  and 
worthy  to  stand  beside  the  famous  ode  of  Col 
lins  :  "How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest." 
"A  Vision  of  Poesy"  is  a  poem  of  considerable 
length,  with  some  highly  imaginative  passages. 
Its  metrical  art  is  well  sustained,  but  the  stately, 
rather  monotonous  movement,  its  elaborately 
developed  theme,  the  impression  it  leaves  on  the 
reader's  mind  of  scholastic  effort,  are  qualities 
that  fail  to  give  us  that  instant  sense  of  inspira 
tion,  of  naive  grace  and  freshness,  of  unpre 
meditated  art,  of  feeling  gushing  straight  from 
the  heart,  the  perfection  of  melody,  which  we 
always  realize  in  his  delightful  lyrics,  his  short 
poems  and  sonnets.  Take  for  instance,  the 
simple,  dainty,  ethereally  lovely  lyric  entitled 
"The  Lily  Confidant." 

In  "The  Cotton  Boll"  Timrod  has  done  for 
the  fleecy  staple  of  the  South  what  Lanier  did 
so  excellently  for  "Corn."  It  is  a  poem  replete 
with  lovely  fancies,  vibrant  with  harmony,  full 
of  rich  color  and  glow.  No  poet  has  ever 
painted  the  peculiar  charm  of  a  Southern  land 
scape  with  a  more  masterful  hand : 


96          Representative  Southern  Poets 

"Where  sleeps  the  poet  who  shall  fitly  sing 
The  source  wherefrom  doth  spring 
That  mighty  commerce  which,  confined 
To  the  mean  channel  of  no  selfish  mart, 
Goes  out  to  every  shore 

Of  this  broad  earth,  and  throngs  the  sea  with  ships 
That  bear  no  thunders ;  hushes  hungry  lips 
In  alien  lands ; 

Joins  with  a  delicate  web  remotest  strands : 
And  gladdening  rich  and  poor, 
Doth  gild  Parisian  domes, 
Or  feed  the  cottage-smoke  of  English  homes 
And  only  bounds  its  blessings  by  mankind !" 

The  poet  who  "fitly"  sung  this  marvel  is  Tim- 
rod,  and  he  "sleeps"  in  Trinity  churchyard, 
Columbia,  S.  C. 

In  his  "Katie"  we  have  Timrod  before  us 
in  his  happiest  mood,  as  the  lover,  and  the  in 
terpreter  of  love,  and  as  the  enthusiastic  painter 
of  Nature,  in  her  serenest  and  most  attractive 
aspects.  The  poem  is  idyllic.  The  portrait  of 
the  fair  English  girl,  environed  by  the  beauty 
of  an  English  landscape  in  spring-time,  is  a  gem 
of  poetic  art.  The  Wordsworthian  spirit  is 
mphatically  felt  in  much  that  Timrod  wrote, 
specially  in  his  nature-poems — the  power  he 
ad  of  transmitting  the  common  into  something 
i'rich  and  rare,"  and  detecting  the  glory  of 
Beauty  in  a  daisy  or  a  blade  of  grass.  In  Tim- 
rod's  soul  there  was  much  of  Wordsworth's 
worship  of  Nature. 

In  the  delicate  art  of  the  sonnet,  Timrod's 
genius  manifested  itself  with  a  simple  elegance, 
a  condensed  wealth  of  spiritual  meaning,  and 


Henry  Timrod  97 

a  grace  of  form  but  rarely  excelled  in  English 
poetry.  His  sonnets  rank  among  the  best  that 
America  has  produced.  The  acknowledged 
technical  difficulties  of  this  form  of  poetry  add 
to  the  value  of  the  success  he  achieved  in  this 
field,  not  to  mention  the  intrinsic  merit,  the 
force  and  beauty  of  the  poetry  itself.  It  is  hard 
to  make  a  choice  among  so  much  excellence.  At 
random  I  select  the  following 

SONNETS. 

T.          .       T  __ 

"Are  these  wild  thoughts,  thus  fettered  in  my  rhymes, 
Indeed  the  product  of  my  heart  and  brain? 
How  strange  that  on  my  ear  the  rhythmic  strain 
Falls  like  faint  memories  of  far  off  times ! 
When  did  I  feel  the  sorrow,  act  the  part, 
Which  I  have  striven  to  shadow  forth  in  song? 
In  what  dead  century  swept  that  mingled  throng 
Of  mighty  pains  and  pleasures  through  my  heart? 
Not  in  the  yesterday  of  that  still  life, 
Which  I  have  passed  so  free  and  far  from  strife— 
But  somewhere  in  this  weary  world,  I  know, 
In  some  strange  land,  beneath  some  Orient  clime 
I  saw  or  shared  a  martyrdom  sublime, 
And  felt  a  deeper  grief  than  any  later  woe. 

—II— 

"Some  truths  there  be  are  better  left  unsaid ; 
Much  is  there  that  we  may  not  speak  unblamed. 
On  words,  as  wings,  how  many  joys  have  fled! 
The  jealous  fairies  love  not  to  be  named. 
There  is  an  old-world  tale  of  one  whose  bed 
A  genius  graced,  to  all,  save  him,  unknown ; 
One  day  the  secret  passed  his  lips,  and  sped 
As  secrets  speed — thenceforth  he  slept  alone. 


98  Representative  Southern  Poets 

Too  much,  oh !  far  too  much  is  told  in  books ; 
Too  broad  a  daylight  wraps  us  all  and  each. 
Ah !  it  is  well  that,  deeper  than  our  looks 
Some  secrets  lie  beyond  conjecture's  reach. 
Ah !  it  is  well  that  in  the  soul  are  nooks 
That  will  not  open  to  the  keys  of  speech. 

—in— 

"I  scarcely  grieve,  O  Nature !  at  the  lot 
That  pent  my  life  within  a  city's  bounds, 
And  shut  me  from  thy  sweetest  sights  and  sounds. 
Perhaps  I  had  not  learned,  if  some  lone  cot 
Had  nursed  a  dreamy  childhood,  what  the  mart 
Taught  me  amid  its  turmoil ;  so  my  youth 
Had  missed  full  many  a  stern  but  wholesome  truth. 
Here,  too,  Q  Nature !  in  this  haunt  of  Art, 
Thy  power  is  on  me,  and  I  own  thy  thrall. 
There  is  no  unimpressive  spot  on  earth ! 
The  beauty  of  the  stars  is  over  all, 
And  Day  and  Darkness  visit  every  hearth. 
Clouds  do  not  scorn  us :  yonder  factory's  smoke 
Looked  like  a  golden  mist  when  morning  broke." 

When  Timrod's  body  had  been  buried  in  an 
unmarked  grave  he  was  soon  forgotten  by  the 
public.  Of  course  his  memory,  and  the  appre 
ciation  of  his  genius,  remained  dear  and  sacred 
to  his  family,  his  most  intimate  friends,  and  to 
the  few  choice  spirits  who,  in  a  land  of  darkness, 
desolation  and  graves,  still  stood  as  faithful 
disciples  of  Truth  and  Beauty,  and  who  strove 
to  restore,  or  rebuild,  the  broken  altars,  and 
recall  the  divinities  which  had  presided  over 
them  until  the  storm  of  war  drove  them  into 
temporary  exile. 

The  years  following  the  close  of  the  war 
were  years  of  social,  political,  and  commercial 


Henry  Timrod  99 

travail,  tumult,  and  conflict  for  the  South. 
Her  people  were  intent  upon  self-preservation. 
But  little  attention  could  be  given  to  the  inter 
ests  or  the  claims  of  the  spiritual  and  the 
esthetic.  The  voices  of  our  poets  sounded  like 
the  voice  of  one  crying  in  a  wilderness.  Small 
heed  was  paid  to  the  voices  of  the  living  singers, 
still  less  to  the  voices  of  the  dead.  Men  were 
absorbed,  body  and  soul,  in  the  re-establishment 
of  their  homes,  in  labors  to  restore  broken  for 
tunes;  in  raising  crops,  in  buying  and  selling; 
in  starting  again  the  wheels  of  long-interrupted 
progress ;  in  resurrecting  from  the  ashes  of  the 
past  whatever  might  be  worthy  of  preservation, 
or  what  could  be  used,  along  with  fresh 
material,  for  the  creation  of  a  new  and  more 
glorious  empire  of  the  future.  Hence  this 
period  was  preeminently  materialistic,  mer 
cenary,  selfish,  devoid  of  the  desire  for  the  fruits 
of  the  spiritual  and  the  ornaments  of  the  ideal. 
The  times  were  coldly  practical,  prosaic,  and 
men  looked  with  disfavor  upon  almost  every 
thing  that  seemed  calculated  to  interfere  with 
the  prevailing  fashion  of  Mammon  worship — 
the  cult  of  the  almighty  "Dollar." 

There  was,  therefore,  small  room  in  the 
minds  of  our  people  for  the  appreciation  of 
poetry,  and  little  regard  for  poets,  living  or 
dead.  The  singing  of  our  living  minstrels  fell 
on  inattentive  ears,  and  the  memory  of  the  dead 
was  allowed  to  fade  into  oblivion.  The  dead, 


100        Representative  Southern  Poets 

however,  for  the  time  being,  had  the  best  of 
the  situation ;  they  were  exempt  from  "the  slings 
and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune" ;  but  to  the 
living  this  period  of  apathy  and  neglect  meant 
bitter  disappointments,  and  occasionally  actual 
starvation,  and  untimely  death.  We  need  only 
to  point  to  the  painful  life-stories  of  Timrod 
and  Lanier. 

Under  such  circumstances,  resulting  from  a 
long  and  destructive  civil  war,  the  presence  of 
lamentable  indifference  to  the  interests  of  litera 
ture,  and  of  the  arts  generally,  can  be  readily 
accounted  for.  That  all  artists,  and  the  repre 
sentatives  of  literature,  were  but  poorly  appre 
ciated  and  rarely  rewarded,  followed  as  an 
:fcevitable  sequence.  But  that  during  recent 
years  a  very  gratifying  change  for  the  better 
has  come  over  the  spirit  of  the  Southern  people, 
is  a  self-evident  fact.  Among  all  classes  there 
has  been  a  general  revival  in  the  interests  of 
education,  a  fruitful  longing  for  the  quickening 
influences  of  higher  culture.  Love  for  the  true 
and  the  beautiful,  just  appreciation  of  the  Fine 
Arts,  admiration  and  pecuniary  reward  for 
artist  and  author,  are  tangible  proofs  of  the 
spiritual  reincarnation  of  our  people. 

This  manifestation  of  intellectual  advance 
ment,  of  the  readjustment  of  mental  and  moral 
standards  on  the  highest  levels  of  human  aspi 
rations  and  achievement,  keeps  pace  with  the 
marvelous  progress  in  the  material  world,  and 


Henry  Timrod  101 

the  outlook  for  the  future  is  radiant  with  hope 
and  promise.  The  point  I  have  attempted  to 
make  clear  in  the  foregoing  remarks  is  well 
illustrated  in  Timrod's  case. 

In  1898,  Dr.  F.  Muench  of  Charleston,  in  a 
magazine  article,  said : 

"For  twenty-five  long  years  after  his  death 
Timrod's  name  was  hardly  ever  mentioned, 
and  rare — very  rare — are  the  instances  of  men 
whose  memory,  buried  under  oblivion  for  so 
long  a  time,  is  suddenly  and  lastingly  revived 
and  redeemed  in  the  rueful  and  ardent  recogni 
tion  of  his  people;  and  it  is  furthermore  evident 
that  such  rare  cases  bear  in  themselves  a  con 
vincing  proof  of  the  man's  intrinsic  worth  to 
humanity.  Do  we,  then,  really  stand  here 
before  such  a  wonder  of  resurrection  from  the 
grave,  before  a  miracle  of  rehabilitation  of  a 
deserving  man's  claim  to  the  undying  gratitude 
of  posterity? 

"We  do !  Not  only  that  daily  more  and  more 
lecturers  and  professors  choose  his  life  and  his 
life's  work  as  themes  for  their  dissertations — 
not  only  that  there  has  lately  arisen  an  ever 
growing  demand  for  his  work,  whereof  not  one 
copy  is  to  be  found  anywhere  and  at  any  price 
(and  yet  he  sold  it  for  a  loaf  of  bread!) — not 
only  that  more  and  more  books  on  Southern 
literature  bring  extracts  of  his  work — not  only 
that  America's  ablest  critic  and  most  prominent 
literary  authority,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard, 


102         Representative  Southern  Poets 

calls  him  the  greatest  poet  the  South  has  yet 
produced — even  now  he  is  concurrently  and 
universally  recognized  as  Henry  Timrod,  the 
sweet  Singer  of  the  South." 

In  the  light  and  in  the  appreciative  spirit  of 
the  New  Day,  let  us  forget  the  gloom  and  the 
apathy  of  the  past. 

In  October,  1898,  a  number  of  friends  of 
Henry  Timrod,  and  admirers  of  his  genius, 
determined  to  publish  a  new  and  complete 
edition  of  his  poems,  and  to  erect  a  befitting 
public  memorial  in  his  honor.  When  the  diffi 
culties  in  the  way  of  this  object  had  been  suc 
cessfully  overcome,  these  public-spirited  gentle 
men  organized  under  the  name  of  "The  Timrod 
Memorial  Association"  of  South  Carolina.  A 
well  known  Boston  publishing  house  was 
engaged  to  print  the  book,  and  it  was  issued 
May  i,  1899.  The  introduction  is  an  earnest 
and  sympathetic  tribute  to  the  poet,  and  gives 
an  interesting  account  of  his  life.  The  book 
met  with  instant  success,  not  only  due  to  its 
intrinsic  merits,  but  also  to  the  excellent  busi 
ness  management  of  the  gentlemen  who  super 
vised  its  publication  and  sale,  and  who,  in  the 
gratification  of  this  success,  felt  themselves 
richly  rewarded  for  their  unselfish  labors.  In 
a  short  time  the  memorial  edition  of  four  thou 
sand  copies  was  sold,  and  the  proceeds  were 
applied  as  proposed. 

In  the  fall  of  1900  Mr.  Edward  V.  Valentine 
of  Richmond,  Virginia,  the  distinguished 


Henry  Timrod  103 

sculptor,  was  commissioned  to  make  a  bronze 
bust  of  Timrod,  to  be  mounted  upon  a  pedestal 
of  Carolina  granite.  On  May  i,  1901,  the 
monument,  chaste  in  design,  and  with  its  speak 
ing  likeness  of  the  poet,  was  unveiled  at  Charles 
ton  with  impressive  ceremonies,  and  before  a 
large  concourse  of  people.  The  monument 
stands  in  Washington  Square,  in  a  locality  of 
historic  interest.  Eloquent  addresses  by  promi 
nent  speakers  were  delivered;  civic  societies, 
public  schools,  and  colleges  were  represented, 
and  the  ladies  of  Charleston  contributed  a 
wealth  of  flowers  for  this  festal  occasion.  A 
chaste  and  graceful  poem,  written  for  the  occa 
sion  by  Henry  Austin  of  New  York,  was  read 
by  the  author,  and  so  an  event,  gratifying 
lovers  of  literature  everywhere,  and  in  every 
particular  most  honorable  to  all  concerned, 
passed  into  history.  Mr.  Hamilton  W.  Mabie 
noted  the  occasion  in  an  editorial  article  in  the 
Outlook  of  May  II,  1901,  in  which  he  paid 
Timrod,  and  the  poetry  of  the  South,  a  very 
graceful  tribute.  Alluding  to  Timrod,  Hayne, 
and  Lanier,  he  said  that  they  were  not  only  men 
of  stainless  life ;  there  was  a  touch  of  the  heroic 
in  each  of  them,  and  that  they  belonged  as  much 
to  the  North  as  to  the  South.  "Timrod, 
especially,"  he  said,  "appeals  to  the  Northern 
reader  by  reason  of  his  freedom  of  imagination, 
his  power  of  surrender  to  emotion,  and  the 
chivalric  note  of  his  spirit." 


104        Representative  Southern  Poets 

A  pleasant  incident,  also,  in  connection  with 
the  work  of  the  Memorial  Association,  is  the 
fact  that  the  graves  of  Timrod,  of  his  child 
Willie,  his  mother  and  sister,  in  the  cemetery 
at  Columbia,  have  been  permanently  marked, 
and  made  as  attractive  as  possible. 

The  poetical  works  of  Henry  Timrod  reveal 
to  the  thoughtful  reader  the  soul  of  a  singer 
upon  whom  has  been  bestowed,  in  rich  measure, 
the  heavenly  afflatus;  one  whom  the  grace  of 
God  had  made  a  poet;  one  who  had  a  divine 
message  to  deliver  to  the  world ;  one  in  whom 
the  true  and  good  and  beautiful  found  fit 
expression  in  wise  and  philosophic  thoughts,  in 
noble  and  perfect  form. 

As  an  interpreter  of  Nature  he  sang  as  her 
intimate  friend  and  lover.  He  laid  his  ear  to 
her  lips,  and  she  revealed  to  him  her  most 
sacred  secrets,  teaching  him,  as  her  poet,  the 
language  through  which  he  might  tell  them  to 
the  world.  As  a  narrator  in  verse  of  the  joys 
and  sorrows,  the  hopes  and  fears  of  human  life 
— the  ever-changing  vicissitudes  that  accom 
pany  life's  journey  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 
— he  impresses  us  with  his  loyalty  to  truth,  to 
faith,  to  reverence  for  whatsoever  ennobles  our 
nature,  and  fits  the  soul  for  its  heritage  of 
immortality. 

As  a  singer  of  songs,  pure  and  simple,  he  is 
unsurpassed  for  the  purity  and  simplicity  of  his 
artistic  methods,  the  clearness  and  sonorousness 


Henry  Timrod  105 

of  his  verse,  the  haunting  lyric  lilt  and  liquid- 
ness  of  his  melody.  Take  him  all  in  all,  his 
place  in  the  front  rank  of  American  and  English 
minor  poets  can  never  be  successfully  chal 
lenged.  His  life  and  work  is  best  epitomized  in 
the  words  inscribed  upon  one  of  the  bronze 
panels  of  his  monument : 

"Through  clouds  and  through  sunshine,  in  peace  and 
in  war,  amid  the  stress  of  poverty  and  the  storms  of  civil 
strife,  his  soul  never  faltered  and  his  purpose  never 
failed.  To  his  poetic  mission  he  was  faithful  to  the  end. 
In  life  and  in  death  he  was  not  disobedient  unto  the 
Heavenly  vision." 


ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN 

Reverend  Abram  Joseph  Ryan,  familiarly 
known  as  "Father  Ryan,  the  poet-priest," 
according  to  some  of  his  biographers,  was  born 
in  Virginia,  in  1840.  This  is  the  statement  of 
Davidson,  in  his  "Living  Writers  of  the  South" 
(New  York,  1869).  But  concerning  the  date 
of  his  birth,  and  his  place  of  nativity,  no  posi 
tive  information  seems  to  be  at  hand.  His  latest 
and  most  accurate  biographer,  John  Moran,  in 
the  memoir  he  wrote  for  the  Household  edition 
of  the  poet's  works,  says  that  Hagerstown, 
Maryland,  Norfolk,  Virginia,  and  Limerick, 
Ireland,  are  claimed  to  be  his  birth-place,  and 
that  the  date  of  his  birth  is  variously  stated  to 
be  1834,  1836,  and  1840.  Moran's  memoir  is 
the  latest  biography  we  have  of  Father  Ryan, 
and  is  probably  the  surest  relative  to  the  facts 
of  the  poet's  life.  We  gather  from  this  that, 
when  Ryan  was  eight  years  old,  his  parents 
resided  in  St.  Louis.  In  that  city  he  received 
his  early  training,  under  the  supervision  of  the 
Brothers  of  the  Christian  Schools.  He  was  a 
bright  and  ambitious  pupil,  and  soon  gave 
proof  of  a  highly  gifted  mind.  Modesty, 


FACING    PAQI     106 


Abram  Joseph  Ryan  107 

amiability,  and  a  deep  devotional  spirit  were 
conspicuous  elements  of  his  character.  This 
religious  tendency  in  his  nature  influenced  his 
teachers  to  direct  his  studies  with  the  view  of 
fitting  him,  eventually,  for  the  priesthood,  a 
view  fully  in  accord  with  the  desire  and  incli 
nation  of  the  future  priest  and  poet. 

Later  on  he  entered  the  Ecclesiastical  Semi 
nary  at  Niagara,  New  York.  In  this  institution 
he  continued  his  studies  with  great  ardor  and 
success,  in  due  time  graduating  with  honors. 
He  was  then  ordained  as  a  priest,  and  entered 
upon  the  active  duties  of  a  missionary. 

When  the  war  between  the  States  began  he 
entered  the  Confederate  army  as  a  chaplain, 
serving  the  Southern  cause  faithfully  in  that 
capacity,  until  the  war  closed  at  fateful  Appo- 
mattox. 

After  the  war  he  was  pastor  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  church  in  Nashville,  Tennessee ;  also  at 
Clarksville  and  Knoxville,  in  the  same  State. 

Removing  to  Augusta,  Georgia,  he  estab 
lished  a  paper  in  that  city  called  The  Banner 
of  the  South.  This  journal  he  conducted  and 
edited  for  five  years  with  conspicuous  ability. 
The  paper  did  not  prove  a  financial  success,  and 
suspended.  During  this  period  he  was  an  occa 
sional  contributor  to  various  magazines  and 
literary  journals,  in  prose  and  verse;  also  devot 
ing  much  time  and  labor  to  lectures  for  the 
benefit  of  the  orphans  and  the  crippled  soldiers 
of  the  South. 


108         Representative  Southern  Poets 

Removing  to  Mobile,  Alabama,  he  served  as 
pastor  of  St.  Mary's  Church  in  that  city,  from 
1870  to  1883.  In  the  latter  year  he  was  given 
permission  to  travel  through  the  country  on 
a  lecture  tour,  in  behalf  of  a  very  worthy  chari 
table  institution.  While  thus  engaged  his 
health  failed  and  he  was  compelled  to  abstain 
from  all  active  work.  While  living  in  retire 
ment  at  the  Franciscan  monastery,  in  Louis 
ville,  Kentucky,  the  end  came,  and  he  died  on 
the  twenty-third  day  of  April,  1886.  A  "Life 
of  Christ,"  upon  which  he  had  been  at  work  for 
some  years,  remained  unfinished. 

I  had  the  privilege  of  meeting  him  in  Atlanta 
and  hearing  him  lecture  for  the  benefit  of  the 
institution  of  charity  to  which  allusion  has 
already  been  made.  Naturally,  the  many  years 
which  have  passed  since  then  have  somewhat 
dimmed  the  picture  of  the  striking  personality 
that  stood  before  us  on  that  occasion,  but  the 
outlines  are  still  vividly  impressed  on  my 
memory.  He  was  of  medium  height,  his 
shoulders,  though  somewhat  stooping,  were 
broad,  and  firmly  set  upon  them  was  a  re 
markably  massive  head,  with  a  very  broad  and 
full  forehead.  His  dark  hair,  brushed  backward 
negligently,  was  long  and  curly,  gracefully 
framing  his  pale  face,  a  face  whose  expression 
was  sad  and  somewhat  austere ;  but  it  was  full 
of  power,  carved,  here  and  there,  with  lines  and 
furrows  which  with  mute  eloquence  indicated  a 


Abram  Joseph  Ryan  109 

strong,  passionate  nature,  but  subdued  and  held 
in  check  by  a  mighty  inward  purpose ;  the  face 
exhibited  the  results  of  great  spiritual  strug 
gles,  of  sorrow  and  of  suffering,  the  scars  of 
the  conflict  remaining,  but  their  meaning  glori 
fied  and  made  holy  by  the  serene  and  abiding 
light  that  shines  out  of  a  soul  that  has  con 
quered  its  peace  and  resignation  through  prayer 
and  religious  meditations.  His  voice  was  clear, 
his  elocution  simple,  direct,  emphatic.  But  the 
most  expressive  feature  of  that  strong,  pathetic 
face  was  the  expression  of  his  eyes ;  large,  deep- 
set  and  dark,  shining  out  from  under  finely 
arched  eyebrows,  they  were  indeed  luminous 
with  the  splendor  of  a  pure  and  richly  endowed 
soul.  This  is  the  portrait,  as  I  remember  it, 
of  Father  Ryan,  the  poet-priest,  a  few  years 
before  his  death. 

Father  Ryan's  poetic  genius  was  of  a  high 
order,  and  he  will  always  hold  a  conspicuous 
place  among  American  poets.  Certainly  the 
people  of  the  South  honor  their  poet-priest, 
and  have  given  him  a  warm  place  in  their 
hearts.  His  popularity  is  proven  by  the  numer 
ous  editions  of  his  poems  and  songs  which  have 
been  published.  The  fact  that  he  is  distinct 
ively  known  as  the  "poet  of  the  Lost  Cause" 
gives  him  a  unique  place,  separating  him  from 
the  other  American  poets  of  his  time.  He  sang 
the  paeans,  he  chanted  the  requiems  of  that 
Cause.  In  defense  of  their  native  land,  for 


110        Representative  Southern  Poets 

principles  they  honestly  believed  to  be  true,  the 
patriotic  people  of  the  South  gladly  pledged 
their  lives,  their  fortunes,  and  their  sacred 
honor,  and  brave  men  fought,  bled,  and  died 
for  them  on  many  a  bloody  battle-field.  These 
brave  men  and  their  deeds  Father  Ryan  has 
immortalized  in  his  poems  and  songs.  The 
poet  placed  these  songs  upon  his  country's 
altar,  as  offerings  of  patriotism.  For  this 
reason  his  memory  is  precious  to  his  people,  and 
they  have  crowned  him  with  a  laurel-wreath 
as  beautiful  as  those  that  adorn  the  brows  of 
the  German  Koerner  and  the  Greek  Tyrtseus, 
or  that  of  any  one  of  the  fiery-souled  bards 
whose  lyrics,  bewailing  the  defeat  of  a  people's 
hopes,  or  celebrating  its  victories,  have  become 
a  glorious  heritage  of  the  human  race. 

This  fervid  martial  vein  is  fully  displayed  in 
his  "Sentinel  Songfs,"  one  of  which  closes  with 
this  lofty  sentiment : 

"When  marble  wears  away, 

And  monuments  are  dust, 
The  Songs  that  guard  our  soldiers'  clay 
Will  still  fulfil  their  trust!" 

Another  very  popular  poem  of  his  is  the 
clear-ringing,  brilliant  lyric  called 

"THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE. 

"Forth   from   its   scabbard,   pure   and  bright, 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee ! 
Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 
High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  Right, 
Its  stainless  sheen,  like  a  beacon  light, 
Led  us  to  victory ! 


Abram  Joseph  Ryan  ill 

"Out  of  its  scabbard,  where,  full  long, 

It  slumbered  peacefully, 
Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle's  song, 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong, 
Guarding  the  right,  avenging  the  wrong, 

Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 

"Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky; 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there, 
And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  sword  led  they  would  dare 

To  follow — and  to  die. 

"Out  of  its  scabbard !    Never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free, 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  cause  so  grand, 
Nor  cause  a  chief  like  Lee ! 

"Forth  from  its  scabbard !    How  we  prayed 

That  sword  might  victor  be ; 
And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 
And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 

Of  noble  Robert  Lee. 

"Forth  from  its  scabbard  all  in  vain 

Bright  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee ; 
'Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain, 
Defeated,  yet  without  a  stain, 
Proudly  and  peacefully." 

The  widest  known  and  quoted  lyric  of  all, 
an  indubitable  inspiration,  composed  in  the 
white  heat  of  lyric  passion — the  splendid  re 
quiem  song  of  a  defeated  people,  yet  proud 
spirited  and  magnificent  even  in  defeat,  is 
Ryan's  "The  Conquered  Banner."  When  the 


112         Representative  Southern  Poets 

poem  was  first  published  it  was  signed 
"Moina."  In  an  old  scrap-book  of  mine  there 
is  a  clipping  taken  from  some  Southern  paper, 
containing  the  poem.  In  a  footnote  the  editor 
says:  "By  special  request  we  republish  this 
fine  lyric  which,  by  the  way,  will  be  found  the 
last  in  the  collection  of  Southern  Songs,  pub 
lished  by  Blalock  &  Co.  Who  is 'Moina' ?  May 
we  not  hope  to  hear  again  from  her  pen?'' 
(The  her  is  in  italics.)  Evidently  the  belief 
was  current  then  that  a  woman  had  written  the 
famous  lyric.  Father  Ryan,  directly  after  the 
war,  wrote  a  number  of  his  poems  under  the 
nom  de  plume  "Moina." 

"THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 

"Furl  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary ; 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary ; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best ; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it ; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it ; 

Furl  it,  hide  it,  let  it  rest ! 

"Take  the  Banner  down !  'tis  tattered ; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered ; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh!  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it; 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it ; 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 


Abram  Joseph  Ryan  113 

"Furl  that  Banner !  furl  it  sadly ! 
Once  ten  thousand  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousand  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave  ; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
And  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave ! 

"Furl  it!  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low ; 
And  that  Banner — it  is  trailing ! 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

"For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it ! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it ! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it ! 
But,  oh !  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

"Furl  that  Banner !    True,  'tis  gory, 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust; 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages, — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

"Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly ! 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy — 
For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 
For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled !" 

Patriotism — his  intense  love  of  the  South, 
.and  of  the  cause  her  people  had  defended  with 
such  heroic  valor,  and  the  sufferings  of  defeat, 


114        Representative  Southern  Poets 

so  patiently  and  bravely  borne,  always  inflamed 
this  poet's  soul,  and  the  strains  he  then  struck 
from  his  harp  came  "as  the  winds  come,  when 
forests  are  rended;  came  as  the  waves  come, 
when  navies  are  stranded."  Equally  peculiar, 
in  their  fervid  mood  and  profound  earnestness, 
are  his  devotional  songs  and  poems ;  his  deeply 
religious  and  meditative  spirit  took  delight  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  ideal,  the  divine,  the 
eternal.  In  all  of  his  religious  poetry  we  are 
met  by  the  warmth  of  pious  zeal  and  the  mys 
tical  glow  of  spiritual  revelation.  The  words 
seem  to  throb  with  emotion  and  struggling 
aspiration.  So  keen,  so  subtle  are  the  feelings 
controlling  him  during  the  moods  from  which 
these  effusions  flowed,  that  it  seems  as  if  the 
poet,  finally,  can  express  himself  only  in  lyrical 
sobs  and  moanings;  he  seems  to  have  been 
thrown  into  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  in  which  he 
beholds  visions  of  ineffable  spiritual  beauty, 
and  seems  ready  to  touch  and  almost  lift  the 
curtain  that  veils  the  Holy  of  Holies,  and  thus, 
by  a  glimpse  reveal  the  very  face  of  God !  It 
is  in  these  songs  and  poems,  coming  from  the 
depths  of  his  soul,  that  we  hear  in  Father  Ryan 
the  clearest  and  richest  poetic  voice,  in  America, 
of  the  great  Christian  Church  of  which  he  was 
the  type  and  representative. 

In  his  Church  Ryan  found  a  wide  field  for 
the  exercise  of  the  spirituality  so  characteristic 
of  him.  It  bore  him  to  the  empyrean  on  the 


Abram  Joseph  Ryan  115 

wings  of  its  majestic  anthems  and  glorious 
symphonies.  It  gave  him  opportunity  for  re 
tirement,  for  self-communion,  for  meditation 
on  supernal  things.  It  harmonized  with  the 
introspection  and  self-immolating  tendencies  of 
his  nature.  It  nourished  him  with  heavenly 
manna;  it  enchanted  him  with  the  glamour  of 
the  mystical,  the  supernatural;  it  gave  him 
moral  strength,  and  directed  the  excursions  of 
his  imagination.  As  a  fine  example  of  his  de 
votional  muse  let  me  give  here  his  weird, 
intensively  imaginative 

"SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC. 

"I  walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence — 
Down  the  dim,  voiceless  valley — alone ! 
And  I  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 
Around  me,  save  God's  and  my  own ; 
And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown. 

"Long  ago  I  was  weary  of  voices, 
Whose  music  my  heart  could  not  win; 
Long  ago  I  was  weary  of  voices, 
That  fretted  my  soul  with  their  din; 
Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  places 
Where  I  met  but  the  hitman — and  sin. 

"I  walked  in  the  world  with  the  worldly, 
I  craved  what  the  world  never  gave ; 
And  I  said :  'In  the  world  each  Ideal, 
That  shines  like  a  star  on  life's  wave, 
Is  wrecked  on  the  shores  of  the  Real, 
And  sleeps  like  a  dream  in  a  grave.' 


116        Representative  Southern  Poets 

"And  still  did  I  pine  for  the  Perfect, 
And  still  found  the  False  with  the  True ; 
I  sought  'mid  the  Human  for  Heaven, 
And  caught  a  mere  glimpse  of  the  Blue ; 
And  I  wept  when  the  clouds  of  the  Mortal, 
Veiled  even  that  glimpse  from  my  view. 

"And  I  toiled  on,  heart-tired  of  the  Human, 
And  I  moaned  'mid  the  mazes  of  men, 
Till  I  knelt,  long  ago,  at  an  altar, 
And  I  heard  a  voice  call  me.    Since  then 
I  walked  down  the  Valley  of  Silence, 
That  lies  far  beyond  mortal  ken. 

"Do  you  ask  what  I  found  in  the  Valley? 
'Tis  my  trysting  place  with  the  Divine ; 
And  I  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Holy, 
And  above  me  a  voice  said :    'Be  mine' ; 
And  there  arose  from  the  depths  of  my  spirit 
An  echo — 'My  heart  shall  be  thine.' 

"Do  you  ask  how  I  live  in  the  Valley? 
I  weep,  and  I  dream,  and  I  pray, 
But  my  tears  are  as  sweet  as  the  dew-drops 
That  fall  on  the  roses  of  May ; 
And  my  prayer,  like  a  perfume  from  censers, 
Ascendeth  to  God  night  and  day. 

"In  the  hush  of  the  Valley  of  Silence, 
I  dream  all  the  songs  that  I  sing; 
And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  Valley, 
Till  each  finds  a  word  for  a  wing, 
That  to  hearts,  like  the  dove  of  the  Deluge, 
A  message  of  peace  they  may  bring. 

"But  far  on  the  deep  there  are  billows, 
That  never  shall  break  on  the  beach ; 
And  I  have  heard  songs  in  Silence, 
That  never  shall  float  into  speech ; 
And  I  have  had  dreams  in  the  Valley, 
Too  lofty  for  language  to  reach ; 


Abram  Joseph  Ryan  117 

"And  I  have  seen  Thoughts  in  the  Valley — 
Ah,  me !  how  my  spirit  was  stirred ! 
And  they  wear  holy  veils  on  their  faces, 
Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard ; 
They  pass  through  the  Valley  like  virgins, 
Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word ! 

"Do  you  ask  me  the  place  of  the  Valley, 
Ye  hearts  that  are  harrowed  by  care? 
It  lieth  afar  between  mountains, 
And  God  and  His  angels  are  there; 
And  one  is  the  dark  mount  of  Sorrow, 
And  one  the  bright  mountain  of  Prayer." 

Another  beautiful  and  pathetic  song  of  his 
has  been  set  to  music  by  Prof.  Samuel  P.  Snow. 
It  is  called  "When?"  The  poet,  anticipating 
death,  gladly  welcomes  him  as  "a  heavenly  mes 
senger"  bringing  peace  and  rest,  and  the  assur 
ance  that  the  poet's  faith  and  trust  in  God  will 
take  him  where  he  can  "kneel  and  kiss  thy  feet 
in  Heaven,  oh,  my  God !"  From  Father  Ryan's 
miscellaneous  verse,  even  that  which  was  con 
ceived  and  written  in  his  lighter  and  most 
fugitive  mood,  it  is  impossible  to  select  any 
thing  that  could  be  called  commonplace  or 
trivial.  The  charm  of  pure  sentiment,  the  sure 
though  light  touch  of  the  master-hand,  the  glow 
and  fancy  of  an  original  mind,  the  unmis 
takable  afflatus,  present  themselves ;  "the  Ryan 
mark"  is  always  evident. 

The  flowers  and  the  fruits  of  Ryan's  genius 
grew  out  of  a  rich  native  soil,  and  though  the 
field  he  cultivated  was  not  a  very  wide  one,  nor 
his  technical  skill  such  as  would  satisfy  all  the 


118        Representative  Southern  Poets 

fine  demands  of  modern  poetical  workmanship, 
yet  the  field  he  did  occupy  he  made  peculiarly 
his  own.  He  was  a  follower  of  no  established 
"school" ;  he  was  no  imitator  of  any  master. 
He  was  content  to  lay  his  productions  upon  the 
twin  altars  of  Patriotism  and  Religion,  doing 
this  in  the  spirit  of  loyalty,  self-consecration, 
and  adoration.  He  cared  nothing  for  the  usual 
prizes  that  are  sought  for  by  ambitious  writers 
— fame  and  gold.  The  eyes  of  his  spirit  were 
fixed  upon  a  far  higher  goal,  upon  a  reward 
grander  than  any  the  world  could  bestow  upon 
him — the  crown  of  immortality,  that  became 
his  when  the  finger  of  God  had  touched  him, 
on  that  beautiful  Spring-day,  in  a  cell  of  his 
monastery.  Then  was  realized  by  him  the  hope, 
nay,  the  assurance,  expressed  in  his  pathetic 
song  "When" : 

"I  know  it  will  be  sweet 
To  leave  the  haunts  of  men, 
And  rest  beneath  the  sod, 
To  kneel  and  kiss  Thy  feet, 
In  Thy  home,  oh,  my  God !" 

Considered  as  a  man,  as  a  priest,  and  as  a 
poet,  Father  Ryan  exemplified  in  each  the 
beauty  of  a  noble  life,  the  life  of  one  who  de 
voted  himself  to  the  welfare  of  his  fellow-men 
and  to  the  service  of  God. 

As  a  priest  he  wore  unstained  the  livery  of 
his  divine  calling.  As  a  poet  he  wrote  out  of 
his  own  heart  and,  therefore,  wrote  himself  into 


Abram  Joseph  Ryan  119 

the  hearts  of  others.  He  never  denied  his 
"singing  robes/'  nor  put  them  on  for  any  un 
worthy  purpose. 

That  the  poetic  works  of  Father  Ryan  have 
secured  permanent  popularity  is  attested  by  the 
fact  that  his  songs  and  poems  have  passed 
through  twelve  editions.  This  popularity  rests 
upon  the  fact  that  all  lovers  of  true  poetry 
recognize  the  genuineness  of  his  work,  loving 
and  honoring  him  because  his  songs 

"Gushed  from  his  heart, 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start." 


JAMES  BARRON  HOPE 

James  Barren  Hope  was  born  March  23, 
1829,  at  the  Gosport  Navy  Yard,  near  Norfolk, 
Virginia,  at  the  home  of  his  grandfather,  Com 
modore  James  Barren,  who  was  the  com- 
mander-in-chief  of  the  Virginia  Colonial  Navy 
during  the  American  Revolution.  His  early 
years  were  passed  in  Hampton,  Virginia,  and 
he  attended  school  there.  He  was  graduated 
from  William  and  Mary  College  in  1847,  and 
studied  law.  In  1856  he  was  elected  Common 
wealth's  attorney  for  Hampton.  Even  as  a  boy 
his  literary  ability  was  conspicuous.  Later  on 
he  attracted  the  attention  of  the  literary  world 
by  the  publication,  in  a  Baltimore  journal,  of 
a  series  of  poems,  which  appeared  under  the 
nom  de  plume  of  "Henry  Ellen,  Esq."  Other 
poems,  published  in  the  Southern  Literary 
Messenger,  of  Richmond,  Virginia,  added  to 
the  young  poet's  rising  fame.  In  1857  he  pub 
lished  a  volume  of  poems  under  the  title  "Leoni 
di  Monota  and  Other  Poems."  This,  his  first 
book,  contained  his  brilliant  ballad  "The  Charge 
of  Balaklava."  It  is  a  poem  full  of  the  fire  of 
battle,  celebrating  in  vigorous  stanzas  the 
heroic  deeds  of  Nolan  and  his  "six  hundred" 


James  Barren  Hope  121 

troopers,  made  immortal  by  Tennyson's  splen 
did  poem.  In  1857  he  was  married  to  Miss 
Annie  Beverly  Whiting  of  Hampton,  Virginia. 
When  the  war  between  the  States  began,  he 
volunteered  and  served  during  the  war  with 
conspicuous  gallantry,  and  rose  to  the  rank  of 
captain  and  quartermaster.  James  Wood 
Davidson,  in  his  "Living  Writers  of  the  South" 
(1869),  tells  of  how  he  met  the  poet,  after  the 
surrender  of  Lee  at  Appomattox,  in  the  town  of 
Greensboro,  North  Carolina,  and  describes 
the  incident,  and  his  personal  appearance,  as 
follows : 

"I  was  standing  in  front  of  the  Cape  Fear 
Bank,  just  then  the  office  of  the  Secretary  of 
the  Confederacy,  when  a  gentleman  on  horse 
back  rode  up.  He  was  a  spare,  slender  man, 
of  thin  visage;  of  rather  light  hair;  beard  thin 
and  worn  in  American  full-faced  style;  wear 
ing  spectacles;  speaking  in  a  soft,  gentleman 
like  tone ;  of  manner  impressive,  but  refined,  and 
Southern.  He  appeared  a  little  less  than  six 
feet  in  height,  and  wore  the  uniform  of  a  Con 
federate  captain. 

"We  exchanged  a  few  words  of  conversation, 
frequently  interrupted.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
passed  on ;  and  in  the  earthquake  of  events  that 
rushed  and  crashed  over  us  that  day  and  the 
next,  I  did  not  again  enjoy  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  the  poet-captain  again." 

Hope's  war  ballads  and  poems  are  worthy 
to  be  ranked  among  the  notable  poetic  effusions 


122        Representative  Southern  Poets 

of  that  strenuous  period  of  our  Southern  litera 
ture.  They  voiced  freely  and  boldly  the  spirit 
of  that  time,  and  are  excellent  specimens  of 
metrical  art.  One,  which  takes  for  its  text, 
"Liberty  is  always  won  where  there  exists  the 
unconquerable  will  to  be  free,"  is  called 

"THE  OATH  OF  FREEDOM. 

"Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live, 
By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free ! 
By  all  the  stars  which  beam  on  high — 
By  the  green  earth,  the  mighty  sea, 
By  God's  unshaken  majesty, 
We  will  be  free  or  die ! 

"Then  let  the  drums  all  roll, 
Let  all  the  trumpets  blow ! 
Mind,  heart  and  soul, 
We  spurn  control 
Attempted  by  the  foe. 

"Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live, 

By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free ! 
And  vainly  now  the  Northmen  try 
To  beat  us  down — in  arms  we  stand, 
To  strike  for  this  our  native  land ; 

We  will  be  free  or  die! 
Then  let  the  drums  all  roll,  etc. 

"Born  free,  we  thus  resolve  to  live, 
By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free ! 
Our  wives  and  children  look  on  high, 
Pray  God  to  smile  upon  the  Right, 
And  bid  us  in  the  deadly  fight 

As  freemen  live  or  die ! 
Then  let  the  drums  all  roll,  etc. 

"Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live, 

By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free ! 
And  ere  we  cease  this  battle-cry, 


James  Barren  Hope  123 

Be  all  our  blood,  our  kindred's,  spilt! 
On  bayonet  or  saber-hilt, 

We  will  be  free  or  die! 
Then  let  the  drums  all  roll,  etc. 

"Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live, 

By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free ! 
Defiant  let  the  banners  fly, 
Shake  out  their  glories  to  the  air, 
And  kneeling,  brothers,  let  us  swear 

We  will  be  free  or  die ! 
Then  let  the  drums  all  roll,  etc. 

"Born  free,  thus  we  resolve  to  live, 

By  Heaven,  we  will  be  free! 
And  to  this  oath  the  dead  reply — 
Our  valiant  fathers'  sacred  ghosts, 
These  with  us,  and  the  God  of  hosts, 

We  will  be  free  or  die ! 

"Then  let  the  drums  all  roll, 
Let  all  the  trumpets  blow! 
Mind,  heart  and  soul, 
We  spurn  control 
Attempted  by  a  foe!" 

Another  defiant  war-cry,  intended  to  stir  the 
hearts  of  those  who  still  hesitated  to  take  the 
fateful  step  of  secession  and  inevitable  conflict, 
is  a  fine  dramatic  lyric,  entitled 

"'LIBERA  NOS,  O  DOMINE!' 

"What!  ye  hold  yourselves  as  freemen? 

Tyrants  love  just  such  as  ye! 
Go !  abate  your  lofty  manner ! 
Write  upon  the  State's  old  banner : 
'A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine!' 


124        Representative  Southern  Poets 

"Sink  before  the  Federal  altar, 

Each  one  low,  on  bended  knee, 
Pray,  with  lips  that  sob  and  falter, 
This  prayer  from  the  coward's  psalter : 
'A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine!' 

"But  ye  hold  that  quick  repentance 

In  the  Northern  mind  will  be; 

This  repentance  comes  no  sooner 

Than  the  robber's  did,  at  Luna! 

'A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine !' 

"He  repented  him: — the  Bishop 
Gave  him  absolution  free ; 
Poured  upon  him  sacred  chrysm, 
In  the  pomp  of  his  baptism ; 
'A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine!' 

"He  repented — then  he  sickened  ! 

Was  he  pining  for  the  sea? 
In  extremis  was  he  shriven, 
The  viaticum  was  given, 

'A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine!' 

"Then  the  old  cathedral's  choir 

Took  the  plaintive  minor  key ; 
With  the  Host  upraised  before  him, 
Down  the  marble  aisles  they  bore  him; 
'A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine !' 

"While  the  Bishop  and  the  Abbot- 
All  the  monks 'of  high  degree — 
Chanting  praise  to  the  Madonna, 
Came  to  do  him  Christian  honor ! 
'A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine !' 


James  Barren  Hope  125 

"Now  the  miserere's  cadence 

Takes  the  voices  of  the  sea, 
As  the  music-billows  quiver, 
See  the  dead  freebooter  shiver! 
'A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine!' 

"Is  it  that  these  intonations 

Thrill  him  thus  from  head  to  knee? 

Lo,  his  cerements  burst  asunder, 

'Tis  a  sight  of  fear  and  wonder! 

'A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine!' 

"Fierce  he  stands  before  the  Bishop, 

Dark  as  shape  of  Destiny; 
Hark!  a  shriek  ascends,  appalling — 
Down  the  prelate  goes— dead— falling ! 

'A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine!' 

"Hastings  lives  !    He  was  but  feigning  ! 

What !     Repentant  ?    Never  he  ! 
Down  he  smites  the  priests  and  friars, 
And  the  city  lights  with  fires ! 
'A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine!' 

"Ah !  the  children  and  the  maidens, 
'Tis  in  vain  they  strive  to  flee ! 
Where  the  white-haired  priests  lie  bleeding 
Is  no  place  for  woman's  pleading. 
'A  furore  Normanorum, 
Libera  nos,  O  Domine!' 

"Louder  swells  the  frightful  tumult — 

Pallid  Death  holds  revelry ! 
Dies  the  organ's  mighty  clamor 
By  the  Norseman's  iron  hammer ! 

'A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine!' 


126         Representative  Southern  Poets 

"So  they  thought  that  he'd  repented ! 

Had  they  nailed  him  to  the  tree, 
He  had  not  deserved  their  pity, 
And  they  had  not — lost  their  city. 

'A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine !' 

"For  the  moral  in  this  story, 

Which  is  plain  as  truth  can  be : 
If  we  trust  the  North's  relenting, 
We  shall  shriek — too  late  repenting : 

'A  furore  Normanorum, 

Libera  nos,  O  Domine  !'  " 

When  the  civil  war  was  over,  Captain  Hope, 
with  undiminished  vigor,  began  the  rebuilding 
of  his  broken  fortune,  devoting  his  splendid 
abilities  also  very  successfully  to  promoting  the 
material  and  intellectual  interests  of  his  native 
State.  He  became  superintendent  of  the  public 
schools  of  Norfolk,  the  arduous  duties  of  which 
position  he  performed  with  great  credit  to 
himself  and  benefit  to  the  community.  He  also 
became  editor  of  the  Landmark,  the  leading 
daily  paper  of  Norfolk,  which  under  his  edi 
torial  control  became  one  of  the  most  influential 
journals  in  the  South.  He  continued  to  edit 
the  Landmark  to  within  a  few  months  of  his 
death,  which  occurred  September  15,  1887. 

He  was  a  versatile  as  well  as  a  brilliant  and 
thoughtful  writer.  From  his  prolific  pen  came 
numerous  essays,  addresses  for  historic  and 
literary  occasions,  also  a  novel  called  "Made- 
Ion,"  and  many  fine  miscellaneous  poems. 


James  Barren  Hope  127 

He  was  frequently  selected  to  be  the  poet  for 
public  anniversaries,  which  his  muse  adorned 
with  graceful  wreaths  of  song.  Among  the 
most  notable  of  these  occasions  was  the  two 
hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  settle 
ment  of  Jamestown,  Virginia,  by  the  English ; 
the  unveiling  of  the  statue  of  Washington  at 
Richmond;  and  the  Congress  of  the  United 
States  selected  him  as  the  national  poet  for  the 
celebration  of  the  Yorktown  Centennial,  in 
1 88 1.  His  ode  for  this  memorable  event  was 
called  "Arms  and  the  Man,"  and  was  a  masterly 
production. 

Another  beautiful  commemorative  poem  was 
the  one  he  wrote  for  the  corner-stone  laying 
of  the  Lee  monument  at  Richmond,  Virginia, 
in  October,  1887.  He  finished  this  poem  a  few 
days  before  his  death,  September  I5th,  and  the 
poem  was  read  on  the  appointed  day  by  his 
friend,  Capt.  W.  C.  McCabe.  The  Lee  Memo 
rial  Ode  is  worthy  to  rank  among  the  best  of 
our  American  patriotic  poems. 

The  Yorktown  Centennial  Ode  has  many 
noble  passages.  The  theme  and  the  occasion 
were  of  a  character  to  inspire  heart  and  mind 
with  the  lessons  of  a  grand  history,  and  the 
muse  of  any  true  poet  with  splendid  imagina 
tion.  To  such  an  invitation  the  genius  of  Hope 
responded  readily  and  worthily.  His  portrait 
of  Washington  is  painted  with  idealistic 
strength  and  classic  art : 


128        Representative  Southern  Poets 

"Achilles  came  from  Homer's  Jove-like  brain 

Pavilioned  'mid  his  ships  where  Thetis  trod ; 
But  he  whose  image  dominates  this  plain 
Came  from  the  hand  of  God ! 

"Yet,  of  his  life,  which  shall  all  time  adorn 

I  dare  not  sing;  to  try  the  theme  would  be 
To  drink  as  'twere  that  Scandinavian  horn 
Whose  tip  was  in  the  sea. 

"I  bow  my  head  and  go  upon  my  ways, 

Who  tells  that  story  can  but  gild  the  gold ; 
Could  I  pile  Alps  on  Apenines  of  praise 
The  tale  would  not  be  told. 

"Not  his  the  blade  which  lyric  fables  say 

Cleft  Pyrenees  from  ridge  to  nether  bed, 
But  his  the  sword  which  cleared  the  Sacred  Way 
For  Freedom's  feet  to  tread. 

"Not  Caesar's  genius  nor  Napoleon's  skill 

Gave  him  proud  mastery  o'er  the  trembling  earth ; 
But  great  in  honesty  and  sense,  and  will — 
He  was  the  'man  of  worth.' 

"He  knew  not  North,  nor  South,  nor  West,  nor  East 

Childless  himself,  Father  of  States  he  stood, 
Strong  and  sagacious  as  a  knight  turned  priest, 
And  vowed  to  deeds  of  good. 

"Compared  with  all  earth's  heroes  I  may  say 

He  was,  with  even  half  his  virtues  hid, 
Greater  in  what  his  hand  refrained  than  they 
Were  great  in  what  they  did. 

"And  thus  his  image  dominates  all  time, 

Uplifted  like  the  everlasting  dome 
Which  rises  in  a  miracle  sublime 
Above  eternal  Rome. 

"On  Rome's  once  blooming  plain  where'er  we  stray 

That  dome  majestic  rises  on  the  view, 
Its  cross  aglow  with  every  wandering  ray 
That  shines  along  the  blue ; 


James  Barren  Hope  129 

"So  his  vast  image  shadows  all  the  lands, 

So  holds  forever  man's  adoring  eye, 
And  o'er  the  Union  which  he  left,  it  stands 
Our  cross  against  the  sky." 

It  was  a  happy  thought  of  the  poet  to  con 
centrate  special  attention  upon  each  part  of  the 
historic  panorama  of  the  century,  by  arranging 
the  Colonies  in  natural  groups — the  New  Eng 
land  group,  the  Middle  group,  the  Southern 
group.  The  group  of  Southern  Colonies  he 
adorns  with  a  poetic  wreath  as  follows : 

"Then  sweeping  down  below  Virginia's  capes, 

From  Chesapeake  to  where  Savannah  flows, 
We  find  the  settlers  laughing  'mid  their  grapes 
And  ignorant  of  snows. 

"The  fragrant  uppowock,  and  golden  corn 
Spread  far  a-field  by  river  and  lagoon, 
And  all  the  months  poured  out  from  Plenty's  Horn 
Were  opulent  as  June. 

"Yet,  they  had  tragedies  all  dark  and  fell ! 
Lone  Roanoke  Island  rises  on  the  view, 
And  this  Peninsula  its  tale  could  tell 
Of  Opecancanough ! 

"But,  when  the  ocean  thunders  on  the  shore 

Its  waves,  though  broken,  overflow  the  beach, 
So  here  our  Fathers  on  and  onward  bore 
With  English  laws  and  speech. 

"Kind  skies  above  them,  under  foot  rich  soils ; 

Silence  and  Savage  at  their  presence  fled  ; 
This  Giant's  causeway,  sacred  through  their  toils, 
Resounded  at  their  tread. 

"With  ardent  hearts,  and  ever-open  hands, 

Candid  and  honest,  brave  and  proud  they  grew, 
Their  lives  and  habits  colored  by  fair  hands 
As  skies  give  waters  hue. 


130        Representative  Southern  Poets 

"The  race  in  semi-Feudal  States  appears— 

Their  knightly  figures  glow  in  tender  mist, 
With  ghostly  pennons  flung  from  ghostly  spears 
And  ghostly  hawks  on  wrist. 

"By  enterprise  and  high  adventures  stirred, 

From  rude  lunette  and  sentry-guarded  croft 
They  hawked  at  Empire,  and,  as  on  they  spurred, 
Fate's  falcon  soared  aloft! 

"Fate's  falcon  soared  aloft  full  strong  and  free, 

With  blood  on  talons,  plumage,  beak,  and  breast ! 
Her  shadow  like  a  storm-shade  on  the  sea 
Far-sailing  down  the  West! 

"Swift  hoofs  clang  out  behind  that  falcon's  flights — 

Hoofs  shod  with  golden  horseshoes  catch  the  eye! 
And  as  they  ring,  we  see  the  Forest-Knights— 
The  Cavaliers  ride  by!" 

In  'Three  Summer  Studies"  we  see  our 
poet's  muse  at  its  best  in  the  vivid  description 
of  natural  scenery;  in  the  sights  and  sounds 
and  curious  medley  of  farm  life;  of  the  radiant, 
redolent  summer  atmosphere;  of  the  mingling 
hues  of  forest,  and  field,  and  garden,  and 
orchard,  of  glowing  sky  and  dark  lagoon;  of 
wandering  cloud-shadows,  of  storm  and  calm 
— the  richly  colored  picture  of  a  Southern  sum 
mer,  painted  by  an  artist  "to  the  manner  born." 
The  lines  are  smooth  and  flowing,  and  the  entire 
conception  is  worked  out  with  admirable  art. 
They  are  "Studies"  worthy  of  being  studied. 

— i— 

'The  cock  hath  crowed.    I  hear  the  doors  unbarr'd ; 

Down  to  the  moss-grown  porch  my  way  I  take, 
And  hear,  beside  the  well  within  the  yard 
Full  many  an  ancient,  quacking,  splashing  drake, 


James  Barren  Hope  131 

And  gobbling  goose,  and  noisy  brood-hen — all 
Responding  to  yon  strutting  gobbler's  call. 

"The  dew  is  thick  upon  the  velvet  grass— 

The  porch-rails  hold  it  in  translucent  drops, 
And  as  the  cattle  from  the  enclosure  pass, 

Each  one,  alternate,  slowly  halts  and  crops 
The  tall,  green  spears,  with  all  their  dewy  load 
Which  grows  beside  the  well-known  pasture-road. 

"A  lustrous  polish  is  on  all  the  leaves — 

The  birds  flit  in  and  out  with  varied  notes — 
The  noisy  swallows  twitter  'neath  the  eaves — 

A  partridge-whistle  through  the  garden  floats, 
While  yonder  gaudy  peacock  harshly  cries, 
As  red  and  gold  flush  all  the  eastern  skies. 

"Up  comes  the  sun ;  thro'  the  dense  leaves  a  spot 

Of  splendid  light  drinks  up  the  dew ;  the  breeze 
Which  late  made  leafy  music  dies ;  the  day  grows  hot, 
And  slumbrous  sounds  come  from  marauding  bees ; 
The  burnished  river  like  a  sword-blade  shines, 
Save  where  'tis  shadowed  by  the  solemn  pines. 

—II — 

"Over  the  farm  is  brooding  silence  now — 

No  reaper's  song— no  raven's  clangor  harsh- 
No  bleat  of  sheep — no  distant  low  of  cow — 

No  croak  of  frogs  within  the  spreading  marsh — 
No  bragging  cock  from  littered  farm-yard  crows, 
The  scene  is  steeped  in  silence  and  repose. 

"A  trembling  haze  hangs  over  all  the  fields— 

The  panting  cattle  in  the  river  stand 
Seeking  the  coolness  which  its  wave  scarce  yields. 

It  seems  a  Sabbath  through  the  drowsy  land : 
So  hushed  is  all  beneath  the  Summer's  spell, 
I  pause  and  listen  for  some  faint  church-bell. 

"The  leaves  are  motionless— the  song-birds  mute— 

The  very  air  seems  somnolent  and  sick: 
The  spreading  branches  with  o'er-ripened  fruit 
Show  in  the  sunshine  all  their  clusters  thick, 


132        Representative  Southern  Poets 

While  now  and  then  a  mellow  apple  falls 
With  a  dull  sound  within  the  orchard  walls. 

"The  sky  has  but  one  solitary  cloud, 

Like  a  dark  island,  in  a  sea  of  light ; 
The  parching  furrows  'twixt  the  corn-rows  plough'd 

Seem  fairly  dancing  in  my  dazzled  sight, 
While  over  yonder  road  a  dusty  haze 
Grows  reddish  purple  in  the  sultry  blaze. 

—in— 

"That  solitary  cloud  grows  dark  and  wide, 

While  distant  thunder  rumbles  in  the  air, 
A  fitful  ripple  breaks  the  river's  tide — 
The  lazy  cattle  are  no  longer  there, 
But  homeward  come  in  long  procession  slow, 
With  many  a  bleat  and  many  a  plaintive  low. 

"Darker  and  wider-spreading  o'er  the  west 

Advancing  clouds,  each  in  fantastic  form, 
And  mirrored  turrets  on  the  river's  breast 

Tell  in  advance  the  coming  of  the  storm- 
Closer  and  brighter  glares  the  lightning's  flash, 
And  louder,  nearer,  sounds  the  thunder's  crash. 

"The  air  of  evening  is  intensely  hot, 

The  breeze  feels  heated  as  it  fans  my  brows, 
Now  sullen  rain-drops  patter  down  like  shot — 
Strike  in  the  grass,  or  rattle  'mid  the  boughs- 
A  sultry  lull :  and  then  a  gust  again, 
And  now  I  see  the  thick-advancing  rain. 

"It  fairly  hisses  as  it  comes  along, 

And  where  it  strikes  bounds  up  again  in  spray, 
As  if  'twere  dancing  to  the  fitful  song 

Made  by  the  trees,  which  twist  themselves  and  sway 
In  contest  with  the  wind  which  rises  fast, 
Until  the  breeze  becomes  a  furious  blast ; 

"And  now  the  sudden,  fitful  storm  has  fled, 
The  clouds  lie  piled  up  in  the  splendid  west, 

In  massive  shadow  tipped  with  purplish  red, 
Crimson  or  gold.    The  scene  is  one  of  rest ; 

And  on  the  bosom  of  yon  still  lagoon, 

I  see  the  crescent  of  the  pallid  moon." 


James  Barren  Hope  133 


Hope's  impulses  were  all  kindly  and  his  out 
look  upon  the  world  was  altruistic.  He  was 
conservative  in  his  views  of  life  and  in  his 
estimate  of  men's  motives  in  public  or  private 
matters.  His  patriotism  was  not  bounded  by 
narrow  sectional  lines,  but  ardently  embraced 
our  whole  country,  and  his  hopes  for  the  future 
peace,  prosperity,  and  union  of  the  Republic 
were  always  optimistic.  This  spirit  is  well 
expressed  in  the  concluding  stanzas  of  his 
Portsmouth  Ode,  where  he  pictures  the  ideal 
historian — yet  to  be  born — of  the  American 
Republic.  I  quote  the  lines  as  follows : 

"In  the  future  some  historian  shall  come  forth  both 

strong  and  wise, 
With  a  love  of  the  Republic,  and  the  truth  before  his 

eyes! 
He  will  show  the  subtle  causes  of  the  war  between  the 

States, 
He  will  go  back  in  his  studies  far  beyond  our  modern 

dates ; 
He  will  trace  out  hostile  ideas,  as  the  miner  does  the 

lodes; 
He  will  show  the  different  habits,  born  of  different 

social  codes. 
He  will  show  the  Union  riven,  and  the  picture  will 

deplore ; 
He   will   show   it   reunited   and   made   stronger   than 

before ; 
Slow  and  patient,  fair  and  truthful,  must  the  coming 

teacher  be, 
To  show  how  the  knife  was  sharpened,  that  was  ground 

to  prune  the  tree. 
He  will  hold  the  scales  of  Justice,  he  will  measure 

praise  and  blame, 
And  the  South  will  stand  the  verdict,  and  will  stand  it 

without  shame." 


134        Representative  Southern  Poets 

The  strength  and  beauty  of  Hope's  poetry  is 
best  exhibited  in  his  odes;  he  rises  to  the 
nobility  of  his  themes,  intertwines  beautiful 
flowers  of  poesy  with  the  sterner  material  of 
historical  facts,  and  impresses  a  permanent 
image  of  the  times,  the  man,  and  the  occasion 
upon  the  mind  of  the  reader.  Many  of  his  mis 
cellaneous  poems  are  also  virile,  felicitous,  and 
quickened  with  the  genuine  spirit  of  the  muse. 
As  father,  husband,  friend,  in  domestic  and 
public  life,  he  was  loved  and  admired,  and  his 
name  and  memory  have  been  honored  by  his 
countrymen,  as  such  a  noble  man  deserves  to 
be  honored. 

His  daughter,  Mrs.  Janey  Hope  Marr,  some 
years  ago  collected  and  edited  her  father's 
poems,  and  the  volume  was  published  in  Rich 
mond  under  the  appropriate  title  "A  Wreath  of 
Virginia  Bay  Leaves."  The  portrait  of  the 
poet  and  other  illustrations  enhance  the  value  of 
this  volume.  The  introduction  is  in  excellent 
taste,  and  gives  interesting  references  relative 
to  the  most  notable  of  the  poems.  The  monu 
ment  to  the  poet  in  Elmwood  cemetery,  at 
Norfolk,  erected  by  the  citizens  of  that  city, 
bears  the  following  befitting  inscription : 

"The  tribute  of  his  friends,  offered  to  the  memory  of 
the  Poet,  Patriot,  Scholar,  and  Journalist,  and  the 
Knightly  Virginia  Gentleman." 

In  E.  C.  Stedman's  elaborate  volume  "An 
American  Anthology/'  a  review  of  the  poets 


James  Barren  Hope  135 

and  poetry  of  America  for  the  past  one  hundred 
years,  strange  to  say,  the  name  of  James  Barron 
Hope  is  not  mentioned,  nor  is  a  line,  even,  of 
his  famous  "Yorktown  Centennial  Ode" 
quoted.  In  view  of  the  fact  that  names  of  far 
less  note,  and  some  quite  mediocre  verses,  are 
given  conspicuous  place,  this  omission  is 
scarcely  excusable. 


FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOR 

It  would  seem  that  the  vocation  of  a  "country 
doctor/'  with  its  hard  work  day  and  night,  its 
monotonous  round  of  constant  and  exhaustive 
duties,  making  heavy  drafts  upon  all  the  mental 
and  physical  resources,  besides  the  lack  of  the 
stimulating  social  and  intellectual  influences 
which  characterize  metropolitan  life — it  would 
seem  that  such  an  environment  would  offer 
slight  inducements  and  few  opportunities  to 
any  one  so  situated,  to  cultivate  esthetics,  in 
dulge  in  dreams  of  the  imagination,  and  time 
for  wooing  the  Muse  of  Poetry.  But  genius 
is  an  insistent,  an  irresistible  power;  it  pene 
trates  every  barrier,  overcomes  every  obstacle, 
making  them,  indeed,  stepping-stones  to  suc 
cess,  and  finds  congenial  nourishment  for  its 
sustenance,  and  the  enjoyment  of  the  divinest 
delights  of  life,  in  circumstances  and  environ 
ments  which,  to  ungifted  natures,  would  be  as 
dry  and  barren  as  sands  of  the  desert.  A 
"country  doctor"  of  the  finest  type  of  his  pro 
fession,  a  good  and,  therefore,  a  noble  man,  and 
a  poet  of  decided  genius,  was  Dr.  Francis  O. 
Ticknor  of  Georgia,  to  a  brief  review  of  whose 


Francis  Orrery  Ticknor  137 

life  and  poetical  work  this  sketch  is  devoted. 
For  the  facts  given  I  am  indebted  to  the  memoir 
written  by  Paul  H.  Hayne,  which  introduces 
the  volume  of  Ticknor's  collected  poems,  pub 
lished  in  1879,  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co., 
Philadelphia. 

Dr.  Ticknor  was  born  in  Baldwin  County, 
Georgia,  in  1822,  and  he  died  near  Columbus, 
Georgia,  in  1874.  His  father,  a  prominent 
physician,  was  a  native  of  New  Jersey;  his 
grandparents  were  natives  of  Connecticut;  his 
mother  was  a  native  of  Savannah,  Georgia, 
where  Dr.  Ticknor's  father  was  married,  and 
resided  for  some  time.  While  still  a  young 
man  he  died.  The  widow  and  three  small  chil 
dren  then  moved  to  Columbus,  Georgia,  where 
her  three  sons  received  an  excellent  education. 
Frank  studied  medicine  and  graduated  in  that 
profession  from  colleges  in  Philadelphia  and 
New  York.  He  married  Miss  Rosalie  Nelson, 
daughter  of  Hon.  T.  M.  Nelson,  a  distinguished 
veteran  of  the  war  of  1812,  and  a  member  of 
Congress. 

Shortly  after  his  marriage,  Dr.  Ticknor 
settled  on  a  farm  near  Columbus,  Georgia. 
The  scenery  around  his  farm  is  described  as 
exceedingly  beautiful,  just  such  as  a  deeply 
poetic  nature  would  take  delight  in.  His  home 
must  have  been  an  ideal  one,  the  abode  of  all 
the  domestic  divinities.  One  of  his  favorite 
avocations  was  the  cultivation  of  fruits  and 


138        Representative  Southern  Poets 

flowers.  Like  Sidney  Lanier,  he  was  also  a 
musician,  playing  exquisitely  on  the  flute,  and 
in  many  other  ways  the  esthetic  and  scholarly 
side  of  his  nature  was  finely  developed  and 
matured.  The  practical  and  humanitarian  side 
was  equally  prominent.  His  warm  heart,  his 
genial,  humor-loving*  temperament,  and  his 
medical  skill  found  an  ample  field  for  exercise. 
He  was  devoted  to  his  home,  and  its  peaceful, 
soul-uplifting  influences,  as  in  the  case  of 
Lanier,  contributed  largely  to  his  success  in  his 
life-work,  and  gave  the  serene  tone  so  charac 
teristic  of  his  verse.  He  illustrated  the  truth 
that  "home-loving  hearts  are  happiest."  One 
of  his  finest  domestic  poems  is  called 

"HOME. 

"Forest-girded,  cedar-scented, 
Veiled  like  Vesper,  sweet  and  dim ; 
Pure  as  burned  the  Temple's  glory, 
Shadowed  by  the  Seraphim ; 
Islet  from  contending  oceans, 
Coral-cinctured,  crowned  with  palm, 
Where  the  wrestling  world's  commotions 
Melt  through  music  into  calm; 
Throats  that  sing  and  wings  that  flutter 
Softly  'mid  the  balm  and  bloom ; 
Sweeter  sounds  than  lip  can  utter 
Hath  my  heart  for  thee 
My  home. 

"Bless  that  dear  old  Anglo-Saxon 
For  the  sounds  he  formed  so  well; 
Little  words,  the  nectar-waxen 
Harvest  of  a  honey-cell, 
Sealing  all  a  summer's  sweetness 
In  a  single  syllable! 


Francis  Orrery  Ticknor  139 

For,  of  all  his  quaint  word-building, 
The  queen-cell  of  all  the  comb, 
Is  that  grand  old  Saxon  mouthful, 
Dear  old  Saxon  heartful 
Home." 

Unostentatiously  he  put  into  daily  practice 
the  principles  of  virtue,  mercy  and  charity, 
which  constitute  the  foundation-principles  of 
Christianity. 

Paul  Hayne  pays  him  a  graceful  tribute  in 
the  memoir :  "Far  and  wide,"  he  says,  "he  was 
known  and  welcomed,  especially  among1  the 
suffering  poor.  His  gleeful  smile;  his  spon 
taneous  criticisms  (for  his  mind  actually 
bubbled  over  with  innocent  humor)  cheered  up 
many  a  despondent  invalid,  and  it  is  possible 
scared  Despair,  if  not  Death  himself,  away 
from  the  bedsides  of  patients  just  about  to 
succumb.  What  wonder,  therefore,  that  when, 
partly  through  fatigue,  exposure,  and  the  unre 
mitting  discharge  of  duty,  their  benefactor  was 
in  turn  stricken  down,  to  die  after  a  brief,  pain 
ful  illness,  the  community  mourned  him  as  only 
those  are  mourned  who  could  truly  say,  like 
Abou  Ben  Adhem,  in  his  vision  of  the  Angel 
and  the  Book  of  Gold,  'write  me  as  one  who 
loved  his  fellow-men.' ' 

The  quaint,  gentle,  perennial  humor  of  the 
man,  gleams  and  smiles  from  his  writings,  and 
even  his  satire  is  warmed  and  chastened  by  it. 


140        Representative  Southern  Poets 

As  a  good  example  of  his  humoristic  verse,  I 
select  the 

"WHIPPOORWILL. 

"Whip  poor  Will !     Was  there  ever  heard 
Such  a  blood-thirsty,  slanderous,  scandalous  bird! 
Under  the  window  so  slyly  to  creep, 
And  whistle  'come  whip  him'  while  Will's  asleep. 
It's  a  bird  of  darkness,  and  not  of  day, 
That  whistles  a  hint  that  he  dare  not  say. 

"Whip  poor  Will!     Why,  what  has  he  done? 
Has  he  found  your  eggs,  ma'am,  and  broken  one? 
Has  he  torn  his  jacket,  or  fought  at  play, 
Or  missed  his  lessons,  or  ran  away, 
Or  broke  a  tumbler,  or  spoke  at  prayer? 

"No,  Willie's  a  boy  that's  nice  and  neat, 
And  Willie's  a  boy  that's  bright  and  sweet; 
He's  quiet  at  home  and  he's  quick  at  school, 
And  he  never  breaks,  if  he  knows,  the  rule; 
And  I  really  think  it  were  wonderous  silly 
For  nothing  at  all  to  whip  poor  Willie ! 

"But,  whip  poor  Will,  if  you've  really  seen 
Another  Willie  that's  bad  and  mean, 
And  you  think  you  ought,  and  think  'twill  'pay' 
To  whip  poor  Willie,  why  whip  away. 
And  so  good-by  to  your  birdship  till 
There's  more  occasion  to  whip  poor  Will !" 

In  his  martial  lyrics  and  poems,  Ticknor's 
genius  exhibits  itself  in  its  most  impressive 
flights.  In  the  power  of  passionate  feeling,  in 
terse,  concentrated  diction,  clear,  ringing  music, 
and  idealistic  imagery,  the  poetry  evolved  by 
the  incidents,  the  pathos,  the  glory  and  the 
gloom  of  our  civil  war,  shows  but  few  examples 
that  can  be  considered  superior  to  the  best  of 
Ticknor's  contributions  to  that  phase  of  our 
American  literature.  During  that  terrible 


Francis  Orrery  Ticknor  141 

struggle  the  poets  and  song-writers  of  the 
North  and  of  the  South  vied  with  each  other  in 
invoking  the  Muse.  It  is  but  simple  justice  to 
say  that  the  work  of  Southern  writers  loses 
nothing  in  point  of  merit  by  comparison  with 
the  productions  of  their  competitors  of  the 
North.  The  natural  mental,  moral,  social,  and 
sentimental  qualities  which  differentiate  the 
people  of  the  Northern  from  the  people  of  the 
Southern  States — differences  whose  origin 
dates  back  for  centuries — and  which  are  due  to 
peculiarities  of  race,  education,  and  social  cus 
toms,  are  clearly  displayed  in  the  poetry  pro 
duced  during  the  war,  and  which,  to  careful 
students,  furnish  data  for  curious  and  interest 
ing  speculations. 

It  is  impossible  to  measure  fully  the  influ 
ences  of  the  power  of  song — of  the  plaintive 
ballad,  the  lofty  and  heroic  lyric,  the  rollicking 
parody,  or  even  the  rude,  dogeerel  camp-fire 
"catches" — in  the  progress  and  results  of  the 
war.  It  is  certainly  true,  as  far  as  the  South 
is  especially  concerned,  and  as  I  have  said  in 
the  introduction  to  my  book,  "The  War  Poets 
of  the  South,"  "the  voices  of  our  poets  cheered 
the  despondent,  nerved  the  brave  to  dare  and 
do  heroic  deeds,  comforted  the  absent,  the  sick 
and  the  dying.  They  often  filled  the  soul  with 
lofty  aspirations,  soothing  and  brightening  the 
loneliness  and  darkness  of  the  prison,  kindling 
and  keeping  alive  the  fires  of  patriotism,  and 


142         Representative  Southern  Poets 

urging  on,  to  glory  or  the  grave,  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  the  best,  the  bravest,  truest 
and  noblest  spirits  that  ever  went  forth  to  battle 
for  their  country  and  to  defend  the  Cause  which 
they  conscientiously  believed  to  be  right,  and 
worthy  of  the  sacrifice  of  life  itself." 

In  the  book  referred  to  I  give  the  names  of 
twenty-three  of  the  most  prominent  Southern 
poets  of  that  period,  and  cite  the  poems  and 
songs  which,  in  my  opinion,  represent  their  best 
productions.  Among  these  Ticknor's  name  and 
poems  occupy  the  conspicuous  place  they  justly 
merit.  Hayne  calls  Ticknor's  "The  Virginians 
of  the  Valley"  a  splendid  lyric,  and  James 
Maurice  Thompson  says  that  in  its  direct,  clear, 
ringing  expression,  in  the  strength  of  its  sim 
plicity,  and  the  naturalness  of  its  art,  it  reminds 
him  of  Beranger.  That  these  opinions  of  such 
competent  judges  are  well  deserved,  will  be 
readily  admitted  by  all  who  can  feel  the  power, 
the  dominating  spell  of  true  lyric  poetry.  Let 
us  listen  to  it : 

"THE  VIRGINIANS  OF  THE  VALLEY. 

"The  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race 

That,  since  the  days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold ; 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

That,  rarely  hating  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Spotswood  round  the  land, 

And  Raleigh  round  the  seas ; 


Francis  Orrery  Ticknor  143 

"Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginian  hills 

Against  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  happy  homes 

With  loveliness  and  worth. 

"We  thought  they  slept! — the  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil-fires ; 
But,  aye,  the  'Golden  Horseshoe'  knights 

Their  Old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep  I" 

Another  poem  of  his  which  commemorates 
the  fate  of  the  Confederate  cruiser  Alabama,  and 
twines  a  wreath  of  laurel  about  the  name  of  its 
gallant  captain,  also  fully  reaches  the  high- 
water  mark  of  Ticknor' s  lyric  gift;  its  rhyth 
mic,  easy  swing,  its  allusions  to  the  splendor 
and  mystery  of  the  sea,  its  wealth  of  fine  meta 
phors,  and  the  spirit  of  olden  romance  breath 
ing  from  its  vivid  and  throbbing  lines,  place  it 
in  the  forefront  of  ballads  of  its  kind. 

"THE  SWORD  IN  THE  SEA. 

"The  billows  plunge  like  steeds  that  bear 

The  knights  with  snow-white  crests ; 
The  sea-winds  blare  like  bugles  where 
The  Alabama  rests. 

"Old  glories  from  their  splendor-mists 

Salute  with  trump  and  hail, 
The  sword  that  held  the  ocean  lists 
Against  the  world  in  mail. 


144        Representative  Southern  Poets 

"And  down  from  England's  storied  hills, 

From  lyric  slopes  of  France, 
The  old  bright  wine  of  valor  fills 
The  chalice  of  Romance. 

"For  here  was  Glory's  tourney-field, 

The  tilt-yard  of  the  sea ; 
The  battle-path  of  kingly  wrath, 
And  kinglier  courtesy. 

"And  down  the  deeps,  in  sumless  heaps, 

The  gold,  the  gem,  the  pearl, 
In  one  broad  blaze  of  splendor,  belt 
Great  England  like  an  earl. 

"And  there  they  rest,  the  princeliest 

Of  earth's  regalia  gems, 
The  starlight  of  our  Southern  Cross, 
The  sword  of  Raphael  Semmes." 

I  have  read  and  re-read  with  unalloyed 
pleasure  the  collected  poems  and  songs  of  Dr. 
Ticknor,  and  have  wondered  at  his  ability  to 
produce  so  much  verse  of  excellent  quality  and 
fine  artistic  finish  during  the  necessarily  rare 
intervals  of  leisure  which  come  to  a  man 
engaged  in  the  trying  and  arduous  duties  of  a 
country  physician  with  a  large  practice.  The 
fact  proves  the  genuineness  of  his  poetic  endow 
ment,  and  the  dominating  power  of  it  over  his 
heart  and  soul.  As  a  born  poet  he  was  com 
pelled  to  sing,  the  divine  vision  wooed  him  and 
he  must  needs  follow,  and  though  he  never 
reached,  nor  attempted  to  reach,  the  empyrean 
heights  of  song,  in  his  lowlier  flights  his  wings 
were  sure  and  vigorous,  and  the  tender  senti- 


Francis  Orrery  Ticknor  145 

ment,  the  simple,  unartificial  music  of  his  verse, 
cannot  fail  to  appeal  strongly  and  lastingly  to 
the  hearts  of  all  lovers  of  true  poetry. 

Room  remains  for  me  to  only  say  a  word  or 
two  of  Ticknor's  rare  gem  of  a  poem  called 
"Little  Giffen,"  one  of  his  war-ballads.  It  is 
better  known,  perhaps,  than  any  other  of  his 
poems,  and  well  deserves  its  prominent  place  in 
the  voluminous  collection  of  our  American  war 
poetry.  Its  terrible  pathos;  its  stern  realism, 
picturing  in  a  few  masterly  lines  the  horror,  the 
gloom,  and  glory  of  war,  the  passion  of  patriot 
ism,  the  heroic  sense  of  duty  inflaming  the  soul 
of  even  a  mere  boy  of  sixteen,  and  the  splendid 
fervor  of  the  concluding  stanza,  give  to  this 
ballad  the  distinction  it  has  won  in  popular 
esteem.  While  there  were  scores  of  such  youth 
ful  heroes  on  both  sides  in  our  civil  war,  yet 
the  fact  that  this  poem  was  not  the  creation  of 
a  poet's  fancy,  but  that  the  incident,  as  related, 
actually  happened — Dr.  Ticknor  being  the 
"good  Samaritan"  who  took  the  poor  battle- 
battered  stripling-hero  to  his  house  and  nursed 
him — adds  unique  interest  to  the  story : 

"LITTLE  GIFFEN. 

"Out  of  the  focal  and  foremost  fire, 
Out  of  the  hospital  walls  as  dire; 
Smitten  of  grape-shot  and  gangrene, 
(Eighteenth  battle,  and  he  sixteen!) 
Spectre !  such  as  you  seldom  see, 
Little  Giffen,  of  Tennessee ! 


146        Representative  Southern  Poets 

"Take  him  and  welcome!'  the  surgeon  said; 
'Little  the  doctor  can  help  the  dead !' 
So  we  took  him ;  and  brought  him  where 
The  balm  was  sweet  in  the  summer  air ; 
And  we  laid  him  down  on  a  wholesome  bed — 
Utter  Lazarus,  heel  to  head ! 

"And  we  watched  the  war  with  abated  breath, — 
Skeleton  Boy  against  skeleton  Death. 
Months  of  torture,  how  many  such? 
Weary  weeks  of  the  stick  and  crutch ; 
And  still  a  glint  of  the  steel-blue  eye 
Told  of  a  spirit  that  wouldn't  die, 

"And  didn't.    Nay,  more!  in  death's  despite 
The  crippled  Skeleton  'learned  to  write.' 
Dear  mother,  at  first,  of  course ;  and  then 
Dear  captain,  inquiring  about  the  men. 
Captain's  answer :  of  eighty  and  five, 
Giffen  and  I  are  left  alive. 

"Word  of  gloom  from  the  war,  one  day ; 
Johnston  pressed  at  the  front,  they  say. 
Little  Giffen  was  up  and  away ; 
A  tear — his  first — as  he  bade  good-by, 
Dimmed  the  glint  of  his  steel-blue  eye. 
'I'll  write,  if  spared !'    There  was  news  of  the  fight ; 
But  none  of  Giffen — he  did  not  write. 

"I  sometimes  fancy  that,  were  I  king 
Of  the  princely  Knights  of  the  Golden  Ring, 
With  the  song  of  the  minstrel  in  mine  ear, 
And  the  tender  legend  that  trembles  here, 
I'd  give  the  best  on  his  bended  knee, 
The  whitest  soul  of  my  chivalry,^ 
For  'Little  Giffen,'  of  Tennessee." 

I  am  sure  even  the  small  number  of  Dr. 
Ticknor's  poems  which  I  have  reproduced  here 
will  be  amply  sufficient  to  justify  the  praise 
which  has  been  bestowed  upon  his  best  poetic 


Francis  Orrery  Ticknor  147 

work,  and  that  it  is  right  to  call  him  "one  of 
the  truest  and  sweetest  lyric  poets  this  country 
has  yet  produced."  As  expressing  my  own 
opinion  of  him  as  man  and  as  poet,  I  cannot  do 
better  than  to  quote  the  concluding  paragraph 
of  Hayne's  memoir : 

"The  man's  soul, — sturdy  yet  gentle,  stal 
wart  yet  touched  by  a  feminine  sweetness — 
informed  them  always ;  and,  if  it  can  hardly  be 
said  of  his  lyrics  that  each  was  'polished  as  the 
bosom  of  a  star/  still  the  light  irradiating  them 
seldom  failed  to  be  light  from  the  heaven  of  true 
inspiration." 


MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON 

Margaret  Junkin  Preston  was  born  in  the  city 
of  Philadelphia  in  1820.  Her  father,  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Junkin,  who  was  the  founder  of  the  Lafay 
ette  College,  in  Pennsylvania,  moved  to  Vir 
ginia  and  in  1848  became  the  president  of 
Washington  College,  in  Lexington,  now  known 
as  the  Washington  and  Lee  University.  Gen. 
Robert  E.  Lee  succeeded  Dr.  Junkin  as  presi 
dent  of  this  great  institution  of  learning. 

In  1857  Miss  Junkin  married  Prof.  J.  T.  L. 
Preston,  one  of  the  faculty  of  Virginia  Military 
Institute,  with  which  famous  school  he  was 
connected  until  his  widely  lamented  death,  July 
15,  1890.  Mrs.  Preston's  brother-in-law,  the 
immortal  "Stonewall"  Jackson,  it  will  be 
remembered,  was  for  ten  years  one  of  the  pro 
fessors  of  this  famous  school.  Mrs.  Preston's 
home  was  at  Lexington,  where  she  lived  to 
within  a  few  years  prior  to  her  death,  which 
occurred  in  Baltimore,  March  28,  1897.  Her 
son,  George,  is  a  prominent  physician  and  sur 
geon  of  Baltimore,  and  has  made  a  name  for 
himself  in  medical  literature. 


*7*~^ 


FACING     PACE     140 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston  149 

Even  as  a  girl  Mrs.  Preston  was  an  earnest 
and  diligent  student  of  literature,  and  .her  bright 
mind  was  influenced  and  cultivated  by  the  study 
of  the  works  of  great  authors.  The  early 
inclination  of  her  taste  in  this  direction  is  clearly 
indicated  by  a  passage  in  one  of  her  charming 
sketches  of  her  travels  in  Europe,  wherein  she 
describes  Elleray,  the  home  of  Christopher 
North ;  she  says : 

"When  I  was  a  child  of  a  dozen  years  I  used 
to  pore  with  delight  over  dear  Kit  North's 
Tights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life,'  and 
when  I  grew  older  I  often  carried,  in  my  child 
ish  rambles,  a  volume  of  his  Essays  with  me, 
and  his  'Noctes  Ambrosianse'  I  might  well 
know  by  heart;  so  Elleray  was  a  sort  of  shrine 
to  me,  and  I  came  to  it  with  something  of  a 
pilgrim's  veneration." 

She  was  accustomed  to  read  and  study  very 
hard  at  night,  and  to  this  over-taxing  of  her 
eyes,  aggravated  later  on  by  a  serious  sickness, 
was  due  the  impairment  of  her  eyesight,  which 
troubled  her  greatly  in  after  life,  compelling  the 
interruption  of  all  literary  labor  by  long  inter-* 
vals  of  rest.  But  with  the  assistance  of  an 
amanuensis,  she  was,  nevertheless,  enabled  to 
produce  a  large  amount  of  valuable  literary 
work,  in  verse  and  prose.  Her  contributions 
appeared  in  high-class  magazines  and  journals, 
and  she  published  five  volumes  of  poems. 


150        Representative  Southern  Poets 

She  has  enriched  American  literature.  The 
people  of  the  South,  especially,  should  be  very 
proud  of  her  and  cherish  her  memory.  She 
has  been  largely  instrumental  in  establishing  the 
high  esteem  in  which  Southern  literature  is  now 
held  among  all  discriminating  students  in  this 
country  and  in  Europe.  She  consecrated  her 
abilities  faithfully  and  ardently  to  the  service  of 
the  beautiful,  the  true,  and  the  good. 

There  are  but  few  female  poets  whose  poetic 
scope  and  singing  powers  are  superior  to  those 
of  Mrs.  Preston.  She  illustrates  in  a  marked 
manner  the  devotional,  the  religious  spirit,  the 
pure  ethics  which,  to  an  unusual  degree,  char 
acterize  the  best  work  of  our  best  Southern 
poets.  Referring  to  her  partial  blindness 
which,  continually  growing  worse,  finally  com 
pelled  her  to  abstain  from  writing  altogether, 
the  case  of  Philip  Bourke  Marston,  the  blind 
English  poet,  has  a  peculiarly  pathetic  interest. 
In  Mrs.  Preston's  sketch  of  Marston,  published 
in  Lippincott's  Magazine  after  the  poet's  death, 
she  says : 

"From  his  writings  it  would  never  be  gath 
ered  that  he  was  blind;  nor,  indeed,  was  he 
willing  that  in  the  slightest  degree  any  abate 
ment  in  the  judgment  formed  of  his  poems 
should  be  made,  in  consequence  of  his  terrible 
affliction.  Nor  would  he  have  let  it  been 
known,  could  he  have  helped  it,  that  he  was 
blind;  he  was  very  adverse  to  having  his 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston  151 

calamity  alluded  to,  and  in  both  his  prose  and 
poetical  writings,  and  in  all  his  letters,  he  con 
stantly  speaks  like  a  man  who  had  clear  eye 
sight." 

Mrs.  Preston  and  Mr.  Marston  were  great 
friends,  and  corresponded  with  each  other 
frequently. 

Like  many  others  of  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  Genius,  Mrs.  Preston  "learned  in  suffering" 
what  she  has  "taught  in  song."  She  was  often 
made  to  pass  through  the  fiery  furnace  of 
affliction.  In  the  laurels  twined  about  her 
brow  many  a  sharp  thorn  of  sorrow  was  hidden. 
Her  severest  domestic  bereavement  was  the 
death  of  her  noble  and  brilliant  husband.  The 
terrible  blow  shattered  an  ideal  home,  and 
nearly  crushed  her  heart.  But  her  profound 
religious  faith,  her  unwavering  trust  in  the 
Saviour,  her  pure  heart,  her  hope  of  immor 
tality,  not  only  sustained  her  in  all  her  trials, 
but  added  sweetness,  light  and  strength  to  her 
spirit,  a  deeper  insight,  a  more  delicate  charm, 
a  loftier  range  to  her  poetry.  Concerning  her 
method  of  work,  she  once  wrote  to  a  friend : 

"I  have  never  given  myself  up  to  literature 
as  my  life-work,  because  too  busy  a  wife, 
mother,  and  friend  for  that  luxury — for  many 
years  I  have  been  the  mistress  of  too  large  a 
household,  to  be  able  to  command  the  wide 
margins  of  leisure  which  go  to  the  making  of 
a  literary  life.  In  the  dedication  of  'Old  Song 


152         Representative  Southern  Poets 

and  New,'  in  a  sonnet's  breadth,  is  the  account 
of  the  way  I  have  always  written.  The  poems 
that  would  have  utterance,  were  crowded 
mainly  into  some  little  interstice  not  at  the 
moment  filled  with  more  imperative  things." 

This  book — "Old  Song-  and  New" — contains 
many  fine  and  vigorous  poems,  portraying 
nature,  and  human  life,  in  their  manifold 
phases. 

"Silverwood :  A  Book  of  Memories,"  which 
appeared  in  1856,  was  her  first  published  book. 
It  is  a  story  descriptive  of  Southern  life,  simple, 
true,  and  full  of  tender  feeling.  Its  keynote 
is  struck  by  the  epigraph  which  its  author 
selected:  "From  the  sessions  of  sweet,  silent 
thought,  I  summon  up  remembrances." 

"Beechenbrook"  is  a  narrative  poem  of  the 
war  between  the  States,  written  during  the 
terrible  conflict.  It  is  the  story  of  a  Southern 
homestead.  The  mistress  of  that  home  is  the 
heroine ;  the  hero  is  a  Confederate  officer,  who 
fights  and  dies  for  the  cause  of  the  South.  The 
theme  of  the  poem  depicts  the  experiences  of 
the  wife  in  equipping  her  husband  for  the  field; 
her  endurance  of  the  agony  of  suspense  while 
he  is  "at  the  front" ;  the  privations  and  suffer 
ings  she  was  called  upon  to  endure,  in  common 
with  the  heroic  women  of  the  South,  during 
those  dark  days,  and  her  glorious  resignation 
when  the  final  and  fatal  blow  came.  It  is  a 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston  153 

poem  vivid  with  fire  and  action  and  is  still  a 
valued  book  in  many  a  Southern  household. 

Then  followed  from  the  press  "Old  Song 
and  New,"  "Cartoons  from  the  Old  Masters," 
"For  Love's  Sake,"  and  "Colonial  Ballads, 
Sonnets  and  Other  Verse."  This  last  volume 
is  dedicated  to  her  friend,  Jean  Ingelow.  The 
"Colonial  Ballads"  are  spirited  narratives  of 
historic  events  and  legends,  taken  from  the 
earliest  annals  of  our  country.  Alluding  to 
this  book  the  author  says :  "One  would  think 
I  was  a  regular  daughter  of  the  Puritans,  when, 
truth  to  tell,  I  have  not  a  drop  of  Puritan  blood 
in  my  veins."  The  sonnets  in  this  volume  are 
graceful  and  artistic ;  in  fact,  few  English  poets 
excel  Mrs.  Preston's  work  in  this  difficult 
branch  of  the  poetic  art.  This  volume  also 
contains  the  charming  series  of  verse  entitled 
"Childhood  of  the  Old  Masters." 

Mrs.  Preston's  prose  is  distinguished  by 
refinement  of  style,  and  pronounced  originality. 
Her  "Aunt  Dorothy,"  a  story  of  old  Virginia 
plantation  life,  partly  in  dialect,  is  clever,  and 
bright  with  local  color.  In  her  "A  Handful  of 
Monographs"  she  gives  us  in  a  most  interesting 
way  an  account  of  her  experiences,  impressions 
and  observations  during  her  travels  in  Europe. 
Among  other  prominent  examples  of  her  ele 
vated  prose  style  must  be  mentioned  her  sketch 
of  "Stonewall"  Jackson,  in  the  Century  Maga 
zine,  and  the  biographical  sketch  of  her  life- 


154        Representative  Southern  Poets 

long  friend,  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne,  which 
forms  the  introduction  to  the  complete  edition 
of  the  works  of  the  poet. 

Many  of  her  best  poems  appeared  in  the 
religions  and  secular  press,  and  some  of  her 
most  notable  poems  were  written  for  public 
celebrations  in  honor  of  famous  men  or  great 
historic  events.  The  one  written  for  the  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  ovation  in  New  York  is  one  of  the 
finest  products  of  her  pen ;  it  was  entitled 

"AT  LAST. 

"If  he  were  here  tonight — the  strange  rare  poet, 

Whose  sphinx-like  face  no  jestings  could  beguile — 
To  meet  the  award  at  last,  and  feel  and  know  it 
Securely  his — how  grand  would  be  his  smile ! 

"How  would  the  waves  of  wordless  grief,  that  over 

His  haughty  soul  had  swept  through  surging  years, 
Sink  to  a  mystic  calm,  till  he  would  cover 
His  proud  pale  face  to  hide  the  happy  tears ! 

"Who  knows  the  secret  of  that  strange  existence — 
That  world  within  a  world — how  far,  how  near ; 
Like  thought  for  closeness,  like  a  star  for  distance — 
Who  knows?    The  conscious  essence  may  be  here. 

"If  from  its  viewless  bounds  the  soul  has  power 

To  free  itself  for  some  ethereal  flight, 
How  strange  to  think  the  compensating  hour 
For  all  the  tragic  past,  may  be  tonight ! 

"To  feel  that,  where  the  galling  scoffs  and  curses 

Of  Fate  fell  heaviest  on  his  blasted  track, 
There,  Fame  herself  the  spite  of  Fate  reverses — 
Might  almost  win  the  restless  spirit  back. 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston  155 

"Though  the  stern  Tuscan,  exiled,  desolated, 

Lies  'mid  Ravenna's  marshes  far  away, 
At  Santa  Croce,  still  his  stone  is  feted, 

And  Florence  piles  her  violets  there  today ! 

"Though  broken-hearted  the  sad  singer  perished, 
With  woe  outworn,  amid  the  convent's  gloom, 
Yet  how  pathetic  are  the  memories  cherished, 
When  Rome  keeps  Tasso's  birthday  at  his  tomb ! 

"So,  though  our  poet  sank  beneath  life's  burden, 

Benumbed  and  reckless  through  the  crush  of  fate ; 
And  though,  as  comes  so  oft,  the  yearned-for  guerdon, 
No  longer  yearned  for,  since  it  came  too  late : 

"He  is  avenged  tonight!    No  blur  is  shrouding 

The  flame  his  genius  feeds :  the  wise,  the  brave, 
And  good,  and  young,  and  beautiful  are  crowding 
Around,  to  scatter  heart's-ease  o'er  his  grave ! 

"And  his  Virginia,  like  a  tender  mother 

Who  breathes  above  her  errant  boy  no  blame, 
Stoops  down  to  kiss  his  pallid  lips,  and  smother 
In  pride  her  sorrow,  as  she  names  his  name. 

" — Could  he  have  only  seen  in  vatic  vision 

The  gorgeous  pageant  present  to  our  eyes, 
His  soul  had  known  one  glimpse  of  joy  elysian ! 
— Can  we  call  no  man  happy  till  he  dies  ?" 

Her  "Centennial  Ode"  for  the  Washington 
and  Lee  University  is  also  a  notable  example 
of  her  Muse  in  its  most  elevated  mood.  But 
it  is  in  themes  that  appeal  to  the  holiest  senti 
ments  of  the  heart,  that  uplift  the  imagination 
to  the  serene  height  of  spiritual  contemplation, 
that  touch  the  conscience  or  depict  the  essential 
elements  of  religious  faith — it  is  in  these  fields 
that  Mrs.  Preston's  poetic  powers  show  them- 


156        Representative  Southern  Poets 

selves  at  their  best.  Her  dominating-  devo 
tional  nature  is  happily  illustrated  by  the  fol 
lowing  incident,  and  in  her  own  words :  "One 
day,  as  I  was  sighing  over  the  fast  falling 
leaves,  my  gay-hearted  young  niece  said  to  me, 
'Oh,  but  think  how  much  more  room  it  gives 
you  to  see  the  beautiful  blue  sky  beyond/  Is 
it  not  a  sweet  thought,  she  says,  that  as  our 
little  joys  and  pleasures,  and  earth's  many 
lovely  things  fade  and  pass  away,  they  open 
spaces  for  us,  through  which  we  may  look  into 
the  illimitable  depths  above  us  ?  To  those  who 
mourn  lost  treasures,  earth  is  sad;  but,  then, 
how  many  happy  homes  and  happy  hearts  there 
are,  after  all,  and  it  becomes  us  to  say,  with 
our  dear  Elizabeth  Browning: 

"  'Through  dearth  and  death, 
Through  fire  and  frost, 
With  emptied  arms,  and  treasures  lost, 
We  praise  Thee  while  the  days  go  on.' " 

From  the  clear  fountains  of  love  and  faith, 
that  flow  from  the  hearts  of  children,  Mrs. 
Preston  frequently  drank  the  inspiration  which 
quickens  her  verse;  and  many  a  tender  lesson 
she  has  drawn  from  the  artless  charm  of  child 
hood,  and  its  winning  ways.  Let  me  illustrate 
this  by  quoting  a  pertinent  poem  from  her 
"Ballad  and  Other  Verse" ;  it  is  called 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston  157 

"THE  ANGEL  UNAWARE. 

"Abroad  on  the  landscape  pale  and  cold, 

Blurred  with  a  patter  of  autumn  rain, 
I  gazed,  and  questioned  if  it  could  hold 

Ever  the  sweet,  old  joy  again. 
The  color  had  faded  from  earth  and  sky, 

Mists  hung  low  where  the  light  had  lain, 
And  through  the  willows  a  fretful  sigh 

Moaned  as  their  branches  swept  the  pane. 

"  'My  days  must  darken  as  these/  I  said — 

'Out  of  my  life  must  summer  go ; 
Its  russetcd  memories,  dim  and  dead, 

Shiver  along  my  pathway  so ; 
No  more  the  elastic  life  comes  back — 

The  leap  of  heart  and  the  spirit-glow 
That  never  had  sense  of  loss  or  lack, 

Whether  my  lot  were  glad  or  no.' 

"But  here  on  my  musings  broke  a  child, 

Fresh  from  a  rush  in  the  pinching  air ; 
And,  kissing  my  hand,  she  gayly  smiled, 

Speaking  no  word,  but  leaving  there 
A  handful  of  heart's-ease,  blithe  and  bright. 

What  had  become  of  my  cloud  of  care? 
It  had  haloed  itself  in  a  ring  of  light    . 

Over  the  angel  unaware  I" 

This  pure,  predominating  note  of  spiritual 
ity,  this  ever-present  sense  of  the  value  of  the 
inner  life  of  man,  this  deep  consciousness  of  the 
high  and  eternal  purpose  for  which  the  human 
soul  is  created,  are  the  leading  characteristics 
of  Mrs.  Preston's  poetry.  There  is  no  artifice 
in  her  verse.  She  writes  from  the  heart.  Her 
ideals  are  lofty,  and  her  treatment  never  lowers 
them.  Her  versification  is  smooth,  elegant, 
and  melodious.  She  awakens  in  her  readers 


158         Representative  Southern  Poets 

wholesome  thoughts  and  good  aspirations,  and 
always  gratifies  the  artistic  sense  in  the  struc 
ture  of  her  verse. 

Concerning  the  essentially  religious  atmos 
phere  which  is  such  a  distinct  attribute  of  Mrs. 
Preston's  poetry,  I  may  be  here  permitted  to 
indulge  in  some  remarks  on  religious  poetry  in 
general.  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  in  his  life  of 
Waller,  touches  upon  this  subject  in  massive 
words,  which  are  occasionally  quoted  by  critics 
as  a  justification  for  the  assumption  that  relig 
ious  verse,  in  the  very  nature  of  things  poetic, 
cannot  be  verse  of  the  highest  order.  These 
critics  are  of  the  opinion  that  Johnson  con 
demns  religious  poetry  as  unsuitable  for  the 
loftiest  flights  of  the  Muse,  and  that  success 
has  rarely  been  attained  in  devotional  verse. 
Dr.  Johnson  says : 

"Of  sentiments  purely  religious  it  will  be 
found  that  the  most  simple  expression  is  the 
most  sublime.  Poetry  loses  its  luster  and  its 
power  because  it  is  applied  to  the  decoration  of 
something  more  excellent  than  itself.  All  that 
pious  verse  can  do  is  to  help  the  memory  and 
delight  the  ear;  and  for  these  purposes  it  may 
be  very  useful;  but  it  supplies  nothing  to  the 
mind.  The  ideas  of  Christian  theology  are  too 
simple  for  eloquence,  too  sacred  for  fiction,  and 
too  majestic  for  ornament ;  to  recommend  them 
by  tropes  and  figures,  is  to  magnify  by  a  con 
cave  mirror  the  siderial  hemisphere." 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston  159 

The  tests  of  truth  and  experience,  in  my 
opinion,  prove  the  learned  Doctor's  dictum 
faulty.  Scriptural  and  devotional  themes  are 
as  well  suited  for  the  highest  flights  of  poetical 
genius  as  any  other  theme  worthy  of  the  con 
templation  and  elaboration  of  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Song.  It  is  necessary  only  to 
point  to  the  works  of  Milton,  Young,  Cowper 
and  Dryden,  to  Pope's  "Messiah,"  and  to 
hundreds  of  others,  in  all  countries,  who  have 
embellished  the  literature  of  the  world  with 
sacred  and  devotional  poetry,  in  order  to  prove 
that  this  class  of  writing  is  the  peer  of  any,  and 
that  it  is  able  to  express  the  highest  art  and  the 
noblest  genius.  Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  criticism 
of  Waller  and  Watts,  does  not  directly  say  that 
religious  subjects  are  unfit  for  poetic  treatment, 
but  writers,  on  his  authority,  have  said  so, 
purposely  or  ignorantly  misunderstanding  his 
true  meaning,  which  appears  to  be  that  the  style 
of  devotional  poetry  must  be  suited  to  the 
theme,  whether  that  be  a  subject  of  piety  or  a 
motive  to  piety — a  statement  with  which  we  all 
must  agree. 

It  is  true  that  a  great  deal  of  so-called  relig 
ious  poetry  is  simply  trash;  but  so  is  a  vast 
amount  of  stuff  written  on  secular  themes,  and 
sadly  miscalled  "poetry."  But  many  of  our 
hymn-writers  are  true  poets,  and  their  verse 
genuine  poetry.  Their  abilities,  as  Milton 
sublimely  says,  "are  the  inspired  gifts  of  God, 


160         Representative  Southern  Poets 

rarely  bestowed,  and  are  of  power  to  imbreed 
and  cherish  in  a  great  people  the  seeds  of  virtue 
and  public  civility;  to  allay  perturbations  of  the 
mind,  and  set  the  affections  in  right  tune;  to 
celebrate  in  glorious  and  lofty  hymns  the  throne 
and  equipage  of  God's  almightiness,  and  what 
He  works  and  what  He  suffers  to  be  wrought 
with  high  providence  in  the  Church;  to  sing 
victorious  agonies  of  martyrs  and  saints,  the 
deeds  and  triumphs  of  pious  nations,  doing 
valiantly  through  faith  against  the  enemies  of 
Christ" 

These  distinguishing  qualities  of  genuine 
religious  poetry  are  amply  apparent  in  Mrs. 
Preston's  collection  of  poems  of  faith  and  com 
fort  published  under  the  title  of  "For  Love's 
Sake."  These  poems,  the  author  says,  were 
published  "for  the  good  they  may  do."  Ah, 
who  can  estimate  fully  the  extent  of  that 
"good"  ?  Poetry  of  this  sort  is  never  limited 
by  time  or  circumstance.  It  may  affect  a  life, 
or  change  the  course  of  a  soul.  That  which  is 
eternal  has  no  limitations. 

Mrs.  Preston  never  paints  a  cloud  through 
which  the  eye  of  faith  cannot  see  the  shining 
of  the  everlasting  stars.  Every  cross  has  its 
crown.  Her  page  is  illumined  by  "the  light 
that  never  was  on  sea  or  land."  In  her  garden 
of  poesy  bloom  the  perennial  flowers  of  love, 
faith,  and  hope ;  the  laurel  and  the  palm  top  the 
loftiest  heights  of  her  conceptions.  No  purer, 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston  161 

sweeter  voice  was  ever  heard  in  the  choir  of 
our  native  songsters — nay,  in  many  particulars 
she  leads  them  all,  and  her  only  rival  among 
recent  writers  of  devotional  verse  in  England 
is  Frances  Ridley  Havergal.  By  the  side  of 
Mrs.  Preston's  pure,  earnest,  simple,  soulful 
and  liquid  verse,  some  of  the  devotional  poetry 
of  Mrs.  Hemans,  of  Moore,  Byron,  Willis, 
sounds  artificial  and  strained ;  their  hymns  and 
Scriptural  poems  are  conventional;  the  keen 
eye  of  Christian  faith  detects  the  flaw  in  their 
polished  marble;  the  inner  ear  hears  the  dis 
cordant  jar  of  the  silver  strings — a  true  soul 
only  can  sing  true  songs ;  behind  the  true  artist 
must  stand  the  true  man. 

It  is  difficult  to  select  examples  out  of  this 
little  volume,  where  all  are  gems  "of  purest  ray 
serene."  Where  can  be  found  a  sweeter, 
gentler  embodiment  of  childlike  faith  in  the 
paternal  love  of  the  Saviour,  than  in  the  sonnet 
entitled  "Doubt"  ?  The  poem  which  gives  the 
book  its  title  is  also  a  beautiful  one.  "Read  to 
Sleep,"  with  its  deep  pathos,  will  bedim  our 
eyes  with  sympathetic  tears.  "Sanctum  Sanc 
torum,"  and  "Who  Knoweth,"  are  radiant  with 
the  celestial  light  of  truth  and  love.  In  this 
volume,  as  in  the  majority  of  Mrs.  Preston's 
poems,  hearts  that  need  the  solace  of  religion, 
all  who  want  to  find  expression  for  the  thoughts 
of  the  soul  when  it  contemplates  the  mysteries 
of  Life  and  Death,  all  who  suffer  and  are  heavy 


162        Representative  Southern  Poets 

laden,  will  find  comfort,  and  rest,  and  the  peace 
that  passeth  understanding.  How  touchingly 
she  gives  lyric  utterance  to  the  divine  desire  for 
immortality,  for  the  reunion  with  our  loved 
ones  in  the  spirit-life  beyond  the  grave,  in  the 
sonnet  entitled 

"WE  TWO. 

"Ah,  painful-sweet !  how  can  I  take  it  in ! 
That  somewhere  in  the  illimitable  blue 
Of  God's  pure  space,  which  men  call  Heaven,  we  two 
Again  shall  find  each  other,  and  begin 
The  infinite  life  of  love,  a  life  akin 
To  angels, — only  angels  never  knew 
The  ecstasy  of  blessedness  that  drew 
Us  to  each  other,  even  in  this  world  of  sin. 

"Yea,  find  each  other !    The  remotest  star 
Of  all  the  galaxies  would  hold  in  vain 
Our  souls  apart,  that  have  been,  heretofore, 
As  closely  interchangeable  as  are 
One  mind  and  spirit:     Oh,  joy  that  aches  to  pain, 
To  be  together — we  two — forever  more !" 

Permit  me  to  digress  here  briefly  for  the 
purpose  of  discussing,  in  a  general  way,  the 
subject  of  ordinary  verse-writing,  which  has 
become  one  of  the  fashionable  pastimes  of  the 
day.  No  class,  profession,  or  trade  seems  to 
be  exempt  from  the  ravages  of  amateur  rhyme- 
making.  It  bids  fair  to  become  as  great  a 
public  nuisance  as  professional  base-ball  play 
ing.  Sentimental  misses  in  their  teens,  whose 
embryo  souls  float  like  "airy  nothings"  on 
moonbeams,  feeding  on  flirtations  and  flowers, 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston  163 

and  developing  chronic  dyspepsia  by  cramming 
their  suffering  stomachs  with  ice-cream  and 
caramels;  petrified  spinsters  of  uncertain  age, 
whose  hearts  live  on  the  "might-have-been" 
memories  of  their  maiden  past,  hopelessly,  yet 
fondly  still,  striving  to  warm  themselves  by 
occasionally  stirring  the  ashes  and  embers  of 
the  fires  which  once  burned  upon  the  ruined 
shrines  of  their  youth's  romance;  crusty 
bachelors,  of  a  moralizing,  pessimistic  turn  of 
mind,  the  result  of  spleen  and  the  soured  milk 
of  human  kindness;  old  men  and  women, 
whose  natural  garrulity  finds  pleasant  vent  in 
harmless  metrical  effusions,  distinguishable 
from  senile  prose  only  by  the  trick  of  rhyming 
words  at  the  end  of  the  lines — all  this  host  of 
amateurs,  to  which  must  be  added  "the  mob  of 
gentlemen  (and  ladies)  who  write"  profession 
ally,  the  regularly  licensed  manufacturers  of 
poetical  ware,  the  haberdashers-in-ordinary  to 
his  majesty,  the  King  of  the  Muses — all  this 
heterogeneous  multitude  combine  to  fill  the 
groves  of  Parnassus  with  their  chirpings, 
nestled  in  the  sheltering  leaves  of  our  maga 
zines,  piping  lustily  from  the  columns  of  our 
newspapers,  or  boldly  rushing  into  the  literary 
market  between  the  covers  of  prettily  printed 
books,  in  red,  white  or  blue  binding,  with  some 
romantic  name,  in  gay  and  gorgeous  golden 
letters,  smiling  from  the  title-page  at  the 
hesitating  book-buyer. 


164        Representative  Southern  Poets 

Wandering  over  the  flat  and  monotonous 
wilderness  of  modish  verse-mongery,  the  sight 
of  an  oasis,  where  golden- fruited  palms  and 
fragrant  flowers  indicate  the  presence  of 
Pierian  springs  of  pure  poetry,  comes  like  a 
vision  of  celestial  delight  to  the  weary  soul  of 
the  wayfarer.  He  enters  and  rests  beside  the 
pure  and  living  waters  and,  with  a  hearty 
"thank  God  !"  quenches  the  thirst  of  his  soul. 

The  feeble  chirpings  of  the  callow  broods 
that  harbor  in  the  bric-a-brac  bushes  of  the  arid 
region  beyond,  are  forgotten  as  we  listen  to  the 
rapturous  melody  of  the  lark  "singing  at 
Heaven's  gate,"  or  to  the  mocking-bird's  won 
derful  song,  who  gives  us  the  whole  orchestra 
of  the  woods  at  once  through  his  own  little 
silvery  throat.  When  the  true,  the  born  poet 
sings,  the  heavens  listen,  and  the  heart  of  man 
is  strangely  stirred,  as  in  the  presence  of  a 
divine  thing.  He  sings  of  hope,  joy,  sorrow, 
faith,  patriotism,  love — of  all  that  constitutes 
the  immortal  part  of  man.  He  deals  in  eterni 
ties,  in  the  spiritual  and  poetic  phases  of  the 
universe.  He  is  inspired  of  God ;  he  is  one  of 
His  prophets,  a  teacher  of  divine  and  everlast 
ing  verities.  The  true,  the  born  poet  looks 
upon  the  gift  of  genius  as  a  holy  trust,  for  the 
proper  exercise  of  which  he  expects  to  be  held 
responsible  before  the  judgment  bar  of  God. 
But,  pray,  what  good  purpose  do  the  "tweedle 
dum,  tweedle  dee"  rhymesters  of  our  day  serve? 
The  emblem  of  the  true  poet  is  the  eagle,  whose 


Margaret  Junkin  Preston  165 

mighty  wings  bear  him  upward  to  the  sun, 
"sailing  in  supreme  dominion,  through  the 
azure  deep  of  air,"  but  the  bric-a-brac,  tum-de- 
dum  de  tum-de-dum  rhymester  is  as  little  fitted 
to  fly  as  the  tadpole,  yet  he  passes  as  a  singer, 
and  imposes  his  rhymed  inanities  upon  a  long 
suffering  and  altogether  too  indulgent  reading 
public.  But  I  have  maligned  the  reputation  of 
a  respectable  tadpole  by  forcing  him  into  com 
parison  with  twaddling  rhymesters,  for  the  tad 
pole  has  within  him  the  power  of  developing 
and,  in  due  time,  he  will  grow  into  an  honest, 
full-grown  frog ;  but  who  has  ever  heard  of  the 
development  of  a  poetaster  into  a  poet?  He 
remains  a  poetically  undeveloped  "pollywog" 
forever ! 

It  is  impossible  to  repress  reflections  akin  to 
the  foregoing,  whenever  we  are  called  upon  to 
show  the  contrast  between  poetasterish  verse- 
making,  the  dabbling  in  rhymed  gush  and  skim- 
milk  sentimentality,  and  the  really  inspired 
work  of  true  poets,  among  whom,  by  divine 
right  of  genius,  Mrs.  Preston  will  always  hold 
a  place  of  honor.  Her  work — as  does  the  work 
of  every  true  poet — worthily  illustrates  the 
following  quatrain  which,  by  personification, 
attempts  to  give  a  definition  of  poetry,  as  well 
as  a  description  of  the  queen  of  the  Muses : 

"Her  form  is  Beauty,  and  her  soul  is  Truth ; 
She  knows  not  death — hers  is  immortal  youth ; 
Her  native  speech  is  Song ;  who  listens  hears 
The  voice  of  God,  and  music  of  the  spheres." 


EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY 

In  the  rush  and  whirl  of  this  modern  world 
of  ours  the  man  whom  Death  has  taken  off  the 
crowded  stage  of  Life  is  soon  forgotten ;  there 
are  but  few  exceptions  to  this  general  rule,  and 
even  these  exceptions,  the  great  names,  the 
lofty  mountain-peaks  of  Science,  Art,  Litera 
ture,  lose  their  original  distinctness,  growing 
dimmer  as  the  mists  of  time  envelop  them ;  only 
here  and  there  some  star  of  the  first  magnitude 
still  shimmers  on  the  horizon,  a  speck  of  glory 
in  the  gray  twilight  of  the  past;  the  lesser 
lights,  however,  do  not  linger  long,  and  are 
soon  lost  from  sight  in  the  blank  void  of 
oblivion. 

Voices  that  once  thrilled  the  world  with  the 
power  of  eloquent  utterance,  or  charmed  it  with 
the  melody  of  sweet  and  impassionate  verse, 
fade  at  last  into  thin  and  almost  indistinguish 
able  echoes. 

Even  poets  are  no  exception  to  this  inexor 
able  rule.  If  we  will  look  back  over  two  or 
three  generations,  confining  our  view  to  the 
limits  of  our  own  country,  and  more  particu 
larly  to  the  narrow  province  of  Poetry,  how 


Edward  Coate  Pinkney  167 

few  are  the  names  that  still  shine  undimmed  by 
the  mists  of  time!  On  the  other  hand,  how 
many  there  are — even  of  once  well-known 
names — one  must  now,  regretfully,  inscribe  on 
the  constantly  lengthening  list  of  "forgotten 
poets" ! 

It  is  my  purpose  to  deal,  briefly,  with  one  of 
these  "forgotten  poets" ;  nevertheless,  a  true 
poet;  one  who,  in  his  day,  deservedly  won 
the  praise  of  his  contemporaries;  who  sang 
exquisite  songs  and  wrote  noble  poems,  worthy 
of  preservation;  and  yet  his  name  is  now  rarely 
mentioned;  a  song  or  two  of  his,  perhaps,  may 
be  occasionally  quoted,  and  yet  it  is  more  than 
likely  that  the  person  quoting  them  is  not  able 
to  give  the  name  of  the  author.  I  have  refer 
ence  to  Edward  Coate  Pinkney,  of  whom  Poe, 
in  his  characteristic  way,  once  said :  "It  was 
the  misfortune  of  Mr.  Pinkney  to  have  been 
born  too  far  South.  Had  he  been  a  New 
Englander,  it  is  probable  that  he  would  have 
been  ranked  as  the  first  of  American  lyrists." 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney  was  born  in  London, 
October  i,  1802,  while  his  father,  the  famous 
William  Pinkney,  was  United  States  minister 
to  Great  Britain.  His  mother  was  the  sister 
of  Commodore  Rogers.  In  1811  the  family 
returned  to  the  United  States,  and  again  estab 
lished  their  residence  in  Baltimore,  where  the 
boy  became  a  student  in  Baltimore  College. 
He  made  rapid  progress  in  his  studies,  and  even 


168        Representative  Southern  Poets 

at  this  early  age  gave  proof  of  intellectual  gifts 
of  a  high  order.  When  fourteen  years  of  age 
his  uncle,  Commodore  Rogers,  procured  for 
him  the  appointment  of  midshipman  in  the 
Navy,  in  which  he  served  six  years.  In  the 
course  of  his  duties  he  became  acquainted  with 
various  parts  of  the  globe;  visiting  many  scenes 
of  classic  story,  especially  during  a  long  cruise 
in  the  Mediterranean.  His  beautiful  poem 
"Italy"  shows  clearly  the  profound  impressions 
which  that  ideal  land  of  art,  romance,  and  song 
made  upon  the  young  poet's  imagination. 

On  the  death  of  his  father,  in  1822,  he 
resigned  his  position  in  the  Navy  and  returned 
to  Baltimore,  studied  law,  and  was  admitted 
to  the  bar  of  that  city,  and  devoted  himself  to 
his  law  practice,  finding  time,  however,  amid 
the  exacting  duties  of  a  lawyer,  to  court  the 
Muses  and  exercise  the  lyric  genius  with  which 
Nature  had  so  richly  endowed  him. 

On  October  12,  1824,  he  married  Miss 
Georgiana  McCausland,  a  very  beautiful  and 
accomplished  young  lady,  who  was,  doubtless, 
the  inspiration  for  his  delightful  lyric  "A 
Health,"  and  whose  charms  he  has  so  grace 
fully  pictured  in  "A  Picture  Song." 

In  the  following  years  a  small  volume  of  his 
poems  appeared  from  the  press  of  Joseph 
Robinson,  but  the  leading  poem  in  this  collec 
tion,  "Rodolph,"  had  appeared  in  print  pre 
viously,  but  anonymously.  The  reading  public, 


Edward  Coate  Pinkney  169 

as  well  as  the  critics,  gave  the  volume  a  hearty 
reception,  and  its  success  induced  the  author  to 
print  another  edition,  enlarged  by  the  addition 
of  several  fine  miscellaneous  poems.  "Rodolph" 
is  a  long,  romantic  story  of  love  and  crime,  in 
the  Byronic  vein,  abounding  in  allusions  to 
classical  myths  and  metaphors,  yet,  although 
there  are  lines  full  of  genuine  poetic  beauty,  the 
style  of  the  poem  is  rather  stilted,  and  the 
general  effect  of  the  poem  is  monotonous.  But 
in  the  miscellaneous  poems,  and  in  the  songs 
contained  in  this  little  book,  of  which  we  doubt 
that  a  single  copy  can  be  found  to-day,  there 
are  gems  of  poesy  unsurpassed  in  beauty  and 
brilliancy  in  English  literature. 

In  1826  he  was  appointed  professor  of 
rhetoric  and  belles-lettres  in  the  University  of 
Maryland,  and  in  the  following  year  assumed 
the  editorship  of  a  political  journal  published 
in  Baltimore,  and  called  The  Marylander.  His 
health,  however,  was  failing  rapidly,  and  on 
April  n,  1828,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  he 
died.  His  grave  is  in  Greenmount  cemetery. 

In  an  introduction  to  a  collection  of  Pink- 
ney's  poems,  N.  P.  Willis  asks  this  question, 
"What  would  poetry  be  in  a  world  where  Toil 
is  not  the  inseparable  twin  of  Excellence  ?"  In 
discussing  the  curious  question  further,  Willis 
says :  "The  wild  horse  runs  very  well  in  the 
prairie,  but  we  give  our  admiration  to  the  'good 
continue!*/  whose  powers  of  endurance  have 


170         Representative  Southern  Poets 

been  developed  by  toilsome  training".  Whether 
the  faineant  angels,  who  'sit  in  the  clouds,' 
admire  most  the  objectless  careerings  of  the 
wild  steed,  or  the  arrowy  endurance  of  the 
winner  of  the  sweep-stakes — whether  the  frag 
mentary  poetry,  dashed  off  while  the  inspira 
tion  is  on,  and  checked,  ill-finished,  when  the 
whim  evaporates,  be  more  celestial  than  the 
smooth  and  complete  product  of  painful  toil 
and  disciplined  concentration — I  have  had  my 
luxurious  doubts.  Pinkney's  genius,  as  evi 
denced  on  paper,  has  all  the  impulsive  abandon 
ment  which  marked  his  character  and  course  of 
life.  He  was  a  born  poet — with  all  needful 
imagination,  discrimination,  perception,  and 
sensibility;  and  he  had,  besides,  the  flesh  and 
blood  fulness  necessary  to  keep  poetry  on  terra 
firma." 

In  my  opinion  the  rich  and  fervid  imagina 
tion  of  this  poet,  his  power  to  paint  pictures 
with  words,  his  command  of  rhythmic  music, 
his  classic  elegance  of  diction,  are  qualities 
which  exhibit  themselves  at  their  best  in  his 
poem  "Italy/'  Written  in  the  manner  of 
Goethe's  "Kennst  Du  das  Land,"  it  contains 
passages  of  supreme  beauty.  I  quote  it  in  full : 

"ITALY. 

"Know'st  thou  the  land  which  lovers  ought  to  choose  ? 
Like  blessings  there  descend  the  sparkling  dews; 
In  gleaming  streams  the  crystal  rivers  run ; 
The  purple  vintage  clusters  in  the  sun; 


Edward  Coate  Pinkney  171 

Odors  of  flowers  haunt  the  balmy  breeze, 

Rich  fruits  hang  high  upon  the  vernant  trees ; 

And  vivid  blossoms  gem  the  shady  groves, 

Where  bright-plumed  birds  discourse  their  careless  loves. 

Beloved ! — speed  we  from  this  sullen  strand, 

Until  thy  light  feet  press  that  green  shore's  yellow  sand. 

"Look  seaward  thence,  and  naught  shall  meet  thine  eye 
But  fairy  isles,  like  paintings  on  the  skv, 
And,  flying  fast  and  free  before  the  gale, 
The  gaudy  vessel  with  its  glancing  sail ; 
And  waters  glittering  in  the  glare  of  noon, 
Or  touched  with  silver  by  the  stars  and  moon, 
Or  flecked  with  broken  lines  of  crimson  light, 
When  the  far  fisher's  fire  affronts  the  night. 
Lovely  as  loved !  toward  that  smiling  shore 
Bear  we  our  household  gods,  to  fix  for  evermore. 

"It  looks  a  dimple  on  the  face  of  earth, 
The  seal  of  beauty,  and  the  shrine  of  mirth ; 
Nature  is  delicate  and  graceful  there, 
The  place's  genius,  feminine  and  fair : 
The  winds  are  awed,  nor  dare  to  breathe  aloud; 
The  air  seems  never  to  have  borne  a  cloud, 
Save  where  volcanoes  send  to  heaven  their  curled 
And  solemn  smokes,  like  altars  of  the  world. 
Thrice  beautiful ! — to  that  delightful  spot 
Carry  our  married  hearts,  and  be  all  pain  forgot. 

"There  Art  too  shows,  when  Nature's  beauty  palls, 
Her  sculptured  marbles,  and  her  pictured  walls ; 
And  there  are  forms  in  which  they  both  conspire 
To  whisper  themes  that  know  not  how  to  tire : 
The  speaking  ruins  in  that  gentle  clime 
Have  but  been  hallowed  by  the  hand  of  Time, 
And  each  can  mutely  prompt  some  thought  of  flame — 
The  meanest  stone  is  not  without  a  name. 
Then  come,  beloved ! — hasten  o'er  the  sea, 
To  build  our  happy  hearth  in  blooming  Italy." 

Surely  it  would  be  difficult  indeed  to  find 
lines  more  felicitous  in  their  description  of  the 
land  of  Art  and  Song. 


172         Representative  Southern  Poets 

In  the  poem  entitled  "The  Old  Tree,"  wherein 
he  touches  upon  memories  of  his  childhood, 
Time  is  personified  in  a  fine  stanza ;  he  calls  him 

"The  great  Reformist,  that  each  day  removes 
The  old,  yet  never  on  the  old  improves — 
The  dotard  Time,  that  like  a  child  destroys, 
As  sport  or  spleen  may  prompt,  his  ancient  toys, 
And  shapes  their  ruins  into  something  new." 

The  sad  feeling  which  accompanies  our  con 
sciousness  of  the  slight  value  and  the  evanescent 
character  of  fame,  is  well  expressed  in  this 
verse : 

"Pass,  wasted  powers ;  alike  the  grave 
To  which  I  fast  go  down, 
Will  give  the  joy  of  nothingness 
To  me,  and  to  renown ; 
Unto  its  careless  tenants,  fame 
Is  idle  as  that  gilded  name, 
Of  vanity  the  crown, 
Helvetian  hands  inscribed  upon 
The  forehead  of  a  skeleton." 


From  the  "Prologue"  he  wrote  and  read  at 
an  entertainment  in  Baltimore  for  the  benefit 
of  the  Greeks,  then  engaged  in  their  struggle 
for  independence — 1823 — I  quote  the  follow 
ing  ringing  lines : 

"We  are  free, 

And  so  can  wish  the  total  earth  to  be; 
Greece  shall — Greece  is — each  old  heroic  shade, 
Draws  with  her  living  sons  his  spectral  blade, 
And  combats,  proud  of  times  so  like  his  own, 
Like  Theseus'  ghost  at  storied  Marathon!" 


Edward  Coate  Pinkney  173 

But  as  a  painter  of  female  loveliness,  as  a 
writer  of  love-lyrics,  as  an  interpreter  of  the 
language  and  dreams  of  Love,  Pinkney  stands 
in  the  front  rank  of  our  singers.  Some  of  them 
have  been  well  described  as  "entire  and  perfect 
chrysolites."  In  four  lines  of  one  of  these 
songs,  what  a  brilliant  portrait  of  a  beautiful 
woman  the  poet  gives  us — 

"Exchanging  luster  with  the  sun, 

A  part  of  day  she  strays — 
A  glancing,  living  human  smile, 
On  Nature's  face  that  plays." 

How  classically  pure  and  delicate  are  these 
lines  from  "A  Picture  Song" : 

"Apollo  placed  his  harp,  of  old,  awhile  upon  a  stone, 
Which  has  resounded  since,  when  struck,  a  breaking 

harp-string's  tone ; 
And  thus  my  heart,   though  wholly  now   from  early 

softness  free, 
If  touched,  will  yield  the  music  yet,  it  first  received  of 

thee." 

Again,  culling  at  random,  I  take  from  one 
short  poem  the  following  three  couplets : 

"Woman,  a  child  of  Morning  then — 
A  spirit  still — compared  with  men." 

"The  low  strange  hum  of  herbage  growing, 
The  voice  of  hidden  waters  flowing." 

"Wet  rain-stars  are  thy  lucid  eyes, 
The  Hyades  of  earthly  skies." 


174         Representative  Southern  Poets 

Listen  to  this  delicious  lyric — there  is  not  a 
more  perfect  love-song  in  the  English  language ; 
it  is  Pinkney's 

"THE  SERENADE. 

"Look  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love, 

And  shame  them  with  thine  eyes, 
On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 

There  hang  more  destinies  ; 
Night's  beauty  is  the  harmony 

Of  blending  shades  and  light; 
Then,  Lady,  up — look  out,  and  be 

A  sister  to  the  Night ! 

"Sleep  not!     Thine  image  wakes  for  aye 

Within  my  watching  breast ; 
Sleep  not !  from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly, 

Who  robs  all  hearts  of  rest  ; 
Nay,  Lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 

And  make  the  darkness  gay, 
With  looks,  whose  brightness  well  might  make 

Of  darker  nights  a  day." 

The  very  soul  of  chivalric  love,  the  sweetest 
music  that  can  be  charmed  from  the  minstrel- 
lute  of  Eros,  lives  in  and  breathes  from  the 
following 

"SONG. 

"We  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine 

To  some  beloved  health  we  drain, 
Lest  future  pledges,  less  divine, 

Should  e'er  the  hallowed  toy  profane ; 
And  thus  I  broke  a  heart  that  poured 

Its  tide  of  feelings  out  for  thee, 
In  draughts  by  after-time  deplored, 

Yet  dear  to  memory. 


Edward  Coate  Pinkney  175 

"But  still  the  old  impassioned  ways 

And  habits  of  my  mind  remain ; 
And  still(unhappy  "light  displays 

Thine  image,  chambered  in  my  brain ; 
And  still  it  looks  as  when  the  hours 

Went  by  like  flights  of  singing-birds, 
Or  that  soft  chain  of  spoken  flowers 

And  airy  gems,  thy  words." 

But  I  must  desist  from  delving  still  further 
into  the  mine  of  this  "forgotten"  poet's  gems  of 
song,  despite  the  pleasure  the  employment 
would  give  me.  In  conclusion  I  will  reproduce 
his  spirited  and  brilliant  poem  entitled  "A 
Health" ;  perfect  in  form  and  melody,  it  is 
destined  to  live  in  our  literature  as  long  as  the 
sentiment  it  illustrates  shall  animate  the  hearts 
of  men,  causing  them  to  praise  and  to  honor 
the  purity  and  the  loveliness  of  the  woman  who 
is,  in  the  belief  of  every  true  lover,  "of  her 
gentle  sex  the  seeming  paragon." 

"A  HEALTH. 

"I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements  and  kindly  stars  have 

given 
A  form  so  fair,  that  like  the  air,  'tis  less  of  earth  than 

heaven. 

"Her  every  tone  is  music's  own,  like  those  of  morning 

birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody  dwells  ever  in  her 

words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they,  and  from  her  lips 

each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burthened  bee  forth  issue  from  the 

rose. 


176         Representative  Southern  Poets 


"Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her,  the  measure  of  her 

hours ; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrance,  the  freshness,  of  young 

flowers ; 
And    lovely   passions,    changing   oft,    so    fill   her,    she 

appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns — the  idol  of  past 

years ! 

"Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace  a  picture  on 

the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts  a  sound  must  long 

remain ; 

But  memory  such  as  mine  of  her  so  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh  will  not  be  life's  but 

hers. 

"I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up  of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman  of  her  gentle  sex  the  seeming  paragon — 
Her  health !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood  some  more 

of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry,  and  weariness  a  name !" 


FACING     PAGE     177 


THOMAS  HOLLEY  CHIVERS 

From  the  list  of  so-called  "forgotten  poets," 
in  which  the  shining  name  of  even  so  sweet  and 
brilliant  a  lyrist  as  Edward  Coate  Pinkney  is 
included,  I  select  another,  to  whose  life  and 
work  peculiar  circumstances,  personal  and 
literary,  have  given  more  than  ordinary 
interest — I  have  reference  to  Thomas  Holley 
Chivers,  of  Georgia,  an  erratic  genius,  a  prolific 
writer  of  poems  unique  in  form,  frequently 
amazing  in  their  bizarre  fancy  and  chaotic 
imagery,  and  yet,  despite  their  incongruous 
composition,  showing  frequent  flashes  of  the 
genuine  poetic  afflatus,  which,  in  his  day, 
attracted  to  him  the  attention  of  the  literary 
world. 

Dr.  Thomas  Holley  Chivers  was  born  at 
Digby  Manor,  near  Washington,  Georgia,  in 
1807.  His  father  was  a  rich  planter,  of 
English  ancestry,  settled  originally  in  Virginia. 
Thomas  Holley  was  the  eldest  of  seven  chil 
dren.  He  graduated  with  honors  in  medicine 
at  Transylvania,  now  the  University  of  Ken 
tucky,  in  1828.  Practicing  his  profession  for 
a  few  years,  Dr.  Chivers  finally  devoted  himself 


178        Representative  Southern  Poets 

to  literary  pursuits,  and  achieved  distinction 
both  in  prose  and  in  poetry.  He  was  an  accom 
plished  classical  scholar,  and  was  especially 
conversant  with  the  Hebrew  language  and  its 
literature. 

When  twenty-five  years  of  age  he  went 
North,  marrying  there  Miss  Harriet  Hunt,  by 
whom  he  had  four  children,  who  died  while 
their  parents  were  temporarily  residing  at 
Digby  Manor.  A  son  and  two  daughters  were 
afterward  born,  and  grew  up.  When  the  son 
died,  his  four  children  were  adopted  by  the 
poet's  second  sister,  Mrs.  Brown,  who  is  still,  I 
believe,  a  resident  of  Decatur,  Georgia ;  another 
sister,  Mrs.  Potter,  is  living  in  Connecticut. 

In  1856  Dr.  Chivers  made  his  final  home  in 
Decatur,  where  he  died  on  the  eighteenth  day 
of  December,  1858. 

His  versatility  of  talent  was  remarkable ; 
even  as  an  inventor  he  achieved  success, 
receiving  a  valuable  prize  at  a  State  fair  held 
in  Savannah,  for  his  invention  of  a  machine 
adapted  to  the  unwinding  of  the  fiber  of  silk 
cocoons,  and  he  was  also  noted  for  his  skill  as 
a  portrait  painter.  His  decease  was  widely 
noted  in  the  press  of  the  United  States,  and 
several  European  journals  mentioned  it.  A 
distinguished  Danish  author,  Professor  Gier- 
low,  wrote  and  published  a  beautiful  poem  as 
a  tribute  to  his  memory.  In  a  neglected  and 
obscure  spot,  in  the  little  cemetery  at  Decatur, 


Thomas  Holley  drivers  179 

in  an  unnoticed  grave,  the  poet's  remains  lie 
buried.     Well  may  we  ask,  what  is  Fame? 

Is  it  worth  while  to  barter  life  for  fame? 

The  hollow,  mocking  echo  of  a  name, 

Which,  drifting  down  the  years,  dies  out  at  last, 

Lost  in  the  soundless  desert  of  the  Past. 

Judged  by  the  portrait  of  him,  which  I  have 
seen,  Dr.  Chivers  was  a  very  handsome,  distin 
guished-looking  gentleman.  His  mouth  was 
full  and  expressive,  a  broad  forehead,  large  and 
lustrous  eyes,  and  long  dark  hair,  marked  him 
distinctly  as  a  person  of  culture  and  intellectual 
prominence.  Those  who  knew  him  personally 
bear  witness  to  his  courtly  manners,  and  the 
charm  of  his  conversational  powers.  William 
Gilmore  Simms  took  great  interest  in  Chivers 
and  his  writings,  playfully  calling  him  "the 
wild  Mazeppa  of  letters,"  teasing  him  about  his 
choice  of  strange  words,  and  rallying  him  on 
the  "monotony  of  his  sorrow,"  to  which 
friendly  censure  Chivers  is  said  to  have  replied, 
with  equal  good  humor,  advising  Simms  to  stop 
writing  stupid  novels,  and  "take  up  literature 
as  a  pleasure."  As  so  little  seems  to  be  publicly 
known  concerning  the  life  and  works  of  Dr. 
Chivers,  especially  by  the  people  of  the  South, 
where  he  was  born,  among  whom  he  lived  and 
labored  for  years,  writing  strange  poems  and 
singing  mystical  songs,  I  am  sure  the  biograph 
ical  facts  I  have  given  will  be  found  interesting. 


180        Representative  Southern  Poets 

I  am  indebted  for  these  to  Mr.  Joel  Benton's 
sketch  of  Chivers,  embodied  in  Mr.  Benton's 
charming  little  volume  entitled  "In  the  Poe 
Circle"  (Mansfield  &  Wessels,  New  York), 
who,  in  turn,  acknowledges  his  indebtedness  to 
Mr.  John  Quincy  Adams,  of  Washington, 
Georgia,  a  relative  of  the  poet,  for  the  authentic 
data  furnished.  Mr.  Benton's  little  book  is  a 
valuable  contribution  to  the  history  of  Ameri 
can  literature,  and  students  of  the  lives  and 
works  of  our  poets  owe  gratitude  to  Mr.  Benton 
for  his  painstaking  labor,  and  his  piquant  com 
mentaries,  in  this  attractive  field.  The  book  I 
mention  contains  a  collection  of  Mr.  Benton's 
articles  on  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  published  during 
recent  years  in  various  magazines  and  journals, 
the  chapters  embracing  the  following  subjects : 
I.  The  Precursor  of  Poe;  II.  The  Poe-Chivers 
Controversy;  III.  Poe's  Opinion  of  the  Raven ; 
IV.  Thomas  Holley  Chivers;  V.  Baudelaire' 
and  Poe — a  brief  parallel;  VI.  Bibliography, 
enumerating  a  selected  list  of  magazine  articles 
referring  to  Poe  and  his  works,  amounting  to 
one  hundred  and  twenty-four  articles. 

The  paramount  interest  of  the  book,  to 
Southern  readers,  particularly  to  Georgians,  is 
the  fact  that  it  associates  with  the  great  name 
of  Poe,  the  name  of  the  Georgia  poet,  Chivers, 
and  recalls  the  details  of  the  famous  Poe- 
Chivers  controversy,  which,  from  time  to  time, 
engaged  the  attention  of  the  literary  world  for 


Thomas  Holley  Chivers  181 

many  years.  This  controversy  had  its  origin 
in  the  alleged  indebtedness  of  Poe,  especially 
in  his  immortal  Raven,  to  the  comparatively 
obscure  and  unknown  poet,  as  regards  the 
measure,  the  rhythmic  conception,  the  peculiar 
form,  the  style  and  "atmosphere"  which  distin 
guish  Poe's  most  remarkable  poems.  The 
charge  is  made  by  Chivers  himself,  and  by  his 
friends,  that  Poe  appropriated  these  qualities 
from  his  Georgia  contemporary's  methods  of 
poetical  composition — the  haunting  melody, 
the  bizarre  phraseology,  which  make  Poe's 
poems  so  charmingly  unique;  that  he,  in  fact, 
passed  them  off  as  his  own  invention.  This 
statement  is  the  basis  for  the  claim  that  Chivers, 
in  these  particulars,  was  the  precursor  of  Poe. 
Alluding  to  this,  and  speaking  of  Chivers,  Mr. 
Benton  says : 

"That  he  came  very  near  to  being  a  consid 
erable  poet,  and  that  he  embodies  more  of  the 
Poe  atmosphere  and  melody  than  exist  any 
where  out  of  Poe's  verse,  will  not  be  hard  to 
prove.  *  *  *  Before  Poe  was  known,  this 
poet — T.  H.  Chivers,  M.  D. — was  writing 
various  weird  and  musical  lyrics,  which,  I  pre 
sume,  went  from  time  to  time  through  the 
Southern  press.  Nearly  sixty  years  ago  he 
began  collecting  them  in  book  form,  and  there 
were  seven  or  eight  volumes  of  them  in  all — a 
much  more  voluminous  legacy  than  Poe's." 


182         Representative  Southern  Poets 

One  of  these  volumes  was  called  "Eonchs  of 
Ruby,"  and  a  poem  in  it  called  "Lily  Adair" 
is  the  one  which,  according-  to  Mr.  Benton's 
opinion,  shows  the  most  remarkable  coincidence 
of  accent,  rhythm,  and  style  with  Poe's  work, 
provided  Olivers  wrote  it  before  Poe  was 
known  to  him.  Evidence  is  given  which  seems 
to  point  to  the  fact  that  Chivers  wrote  in  the 
Poe  manner  over  sixty,  perhaps  seventy,  years 
ago.  Poe  published  the  Raven  in  1845.  The 
poem  of  Chivers  reproduced  in  Mr.  Benton' s 
book  certainly  appears  to  corroborate  this  state 
ment.  Other  poems  in  the  same  volume, 
"Eonchs  of  Ruby,"  deepen  the  impression  of 
remarkable  coincidence,  the  general  prevalence 
of  the  Poe  manner;  the  poem,  for  instance, 
called  "The  Vigil  of  Aiden,"  with  its  refrain, 
"Never,  Nevermore,"  and 

"While  the  Seraphim  all  waited, 
At  the  portal  congregated 
Of  the  city  golden-gated 
Crying :    Rise  with  thy  Lenore !" 

The  same  characteristic  appears  in  the  poem 
"Avalon,"  the  one  called  "Lord  Uther's 
Lament  for  Ella,"  and  "The  Dying  Swan." 

Mr.  Benton  calls  attention  to  the  many  Poe- 
like  phrases  peculiar  to  Chivers's  poems,  such 
as  "Aiden,"  "Auber,"  "Abysmal,"  "Eulalie," 
""Asphodel,"  "Evangel,"  "Avalon,"  etc.  On 
this  point  Mr.  Benton  comments  as  follows : 


Thomas  Holley  Chivers  183 

"Two  poets  could  not  have  fallen  upon  them 
by  original  choice,  to  say  nothing  of  the  atmos 
phere  which  was  drawn  around  them.  Of 
course,  there  is  no  question  that  Poe  used  the 
machinery  and  hypnotism  better  than  Chivers 
did  or  could.  One  leaves  an  immortal  halo 
around  his  name,  and  the  other  a  nebulous  mist 
which  failed  to  condense  into  a  star." 

The  purport  of  Mr.  Benton's  criticism  of  the 
poetry  of  Chivers — examples  of  which  he 
quotes,  to  show  its  grotesqueness  and  absurd 
pomp  of  phraseology — is  to  the  effect  that,  not 
withstanding  all  this,  if  Chivers  set  the  mould 
and  pace  for  Poe,  on  which  Poe  erected  his  own 
fame,  Chivers  "will  surely  have  some  claim  to 
remembrance." 

To  Mr.  Benton's  opinion  I  beg  to  add  my 
own  belief  that  Chivers,  outside  of  the  honor 
of  having  "set  the  mould  and  pace  for  Poe,"  is 
entitled  to  remembrance  as  a  poet  of  erratic  yet 
distinct  genius,  and  as  the  author  of  lines  and 
verses  of  much  grace  and  beauty.  That  the 
world  knows  nothing  of  him  now,  and  that  his 
name  is  scarcely  ever  mentioned,  save  occasion 
ally  in  connection  with  the  Poe-Chivers  contro 
versy,  should  not  be  taken  too  seriously ;  other 
meritorious  minor  poets  have  lived  and  died 
and  faded  out  of  view  and  the  memory  of  the 
world,  leaving  no  claim  to  remembrance,  save, 
perhaps,  a  line  or  two  in  some  biographical  dic 
tionary;  yet,  in  their  day  and  generation,  they 


184         Representative  Southern  Poets 

were  recognized  and  honored  as  legitimate 
children  of  the  Muses — and  such  a  one  was 
Chivers.  That  he  was  noted  in  his  time  is  an 
unquestionable  fact.  From  1837  to  1858  he 
published  eight  volumes  of  poems.  He  was  a 
contributor  to  some  of  the  leading  magazines 
of  that  day.  Bayard  Taylor  mentions  him  in 
his  "The  Diversions  of  the  Echo  Club,"  and 
says  of  him  :  "He  is  a  phenomenon  *  *  * 
one  of  the  finest  images  in  modern  poetry  is  in 
his  ' Apollo' : 

"'Like  cataracts  of  adamant  uplifted  into  mountains, 
Making  oceans  metropolitan  for  the  splendor  of  the 
dawn.' " 

He  was  known  and  appreciated  in  England. 
It  is  stated  that  a  complete  set  of  his  works  is 
on  the  shelves  of  the  British  Museum,  and  yet, 
says  Mr.  Benton,  the  editor  of  Appleton's 
Biographical  Dictionary  found  it  impossible  to 
get  any  facts  of  this  Georgia  poet's  life,  in  spite 
of  diligent  efforts  to  do  so. 

Swinburne  was  an  admirer  of  Clivers's 
poetry.  When  Bayard  Taylor  was  in  England, 
thirty  years  ago,  says  Mr.  Benton,  the  name  of 
Chivers  happened  to  be  mentioned  in  Swin 
burne's  presence.  "Oh,  Chivers,  Chivers," 
exclaimed  Swinburne,  "if  you  know  Chivers, 
give  me  your  hand";  and  Mr.  Stedman  says 
that  an  allusion  to  Chivers,  in  Swinburne's 
presence,  would  cause  the  latter  to  repeat,  with 


Thomas  Holley  Chivers  185 

great  hilarity  and  gusto,  whole  passages  from 
Chivers's  books.  One  critic,  it  is  stated,  sug 
gested  that  Swinburne  not  only  repeated 
Chivers's  verses,  but  that  he  has  put  into  his 
own  poetry  many  marks  of  this  American  poet's 
influence. 

While  the  mass  of  Chivers's  poetical  work  is 
of  small  worth, — Mr.  Benton  rather  too  slash- 
ingly,  I  think,  calls  it  "mainly  trash," — it  is 
nevertheless  true  that  there  are  lines  and  stanzas 
gleaming  with  the  pure  gold  of  poetic  inspira 
tion,  and  in  form  and  manner  show  the  touch 
of  an  artist  hand.  Mr.  Benton  presents  several 
of  Chivers's  poems  in  full,  besides  numerous 
extracts  from  others;  but,  for  my  purpose,  it 
will  be  sufficient  to  reproduce  here  only  a  few 
quotations  in  justification  of  the  opinion  I  have 
expressed  as  to  the  fine  poetic  and  lyric  qualities 
that  can  be  found  in  the  writings  of  Chivers; 
for  instance,  here  are  four  verses  of  a  poem 
originally  published  in  the  Waverly  Magazine, 
and  called  "The  Little  Boy  Blue"— 

"The  little  boy  blue 

Was  the  boy  that  was  born, 
In  the  forests  of  Dew 
On  the  mountains  of  Morn. 

"There  the  pomegranate  bells — 

They  were  made  to  denote 
How  much  music  now  dwells 
In  the  nightingale's  throat. 


186        Representative  Southern  Poets 

"On  the  green  banks  of  On, 

In  the  city  of  No, 
There  he  taught  the  wild  swan 
Her  white  bugle  to  blow. 

"Where  the  cherubim  rode 

On  four  lions  of  gold, 
There  this  cherub  abode 
Making  new  what  was  old." 

The  following  stanza  is  from  "Ellen 
(published  in  Philadelphia  in  1836)  : 

"Like  the  Lamb's  wife,  seen  in  vision, 

Coming  down  from  heaven  above, 
Making  earth  like  fields  Elysian, 

Golden  City  of  God's  love — 
Pure  as  jasper — clear  as  crystal — 

Decked  with  twelve  gates  richly  rare — 
Statued  with  twelve  angels  vestal — 

Was  the  form  of  Ellen  yEyre — 
Gentle  girl  so  debonair — 

Whitest,  brightest  of  all  cities,  saintly  angel, 
Ellen  yEyre." 

The    following    is    a    remarkably    Poesque 
stanza  from  Chivers's  poem,  "Lily  Adair" : 

"From  her  Paradise-Isles  in  the  ocean, 

To  the  beautiful  City  of  On, 
By  the  mellifluent  rivers  of  Goshen, 

My  beautiful  Lily  is  gone ! 
In  her  chariot  of  fire  translated, 

Like  Elijah  she  passed  through  the  air, 
To  the  City  of  God,  golden-gated — 
The  home  of  my  Lily  Adair — 
Of  my  Star-crowned  Lily  Adair, 
Of  my  God-loved  Lily  Adair — 
Of  my  beautiful,  dutiful  Lily  Adair." 


Thomas  Holley  Chivers  187 

From  Chivers's  poem  "Avalon"  Mr.  Benton 
quotes  the  following  remarkable  passages : 

"For  thou  didst  tread  with  fire-ensandalled  feet, 

Star-crowned,  forgiven, 
The  burning  diapason  of  the  stars  so  sweet, 
To  God  in  Heaven. 

"The  violet  of  her  soul-suffused  eyes 

Was  like  that  flower 

Which  blows  its  purple  trumpet  at  the  skies, 
For  Dawn's  first  hour." 

"Four  little  Angels  killed  by  one  cold  Death 
To  make  God  glad !" 

"Thou  wert  like  Taleisin,  'full  of  eyes/ 

Babbling  of  Love ! 
My  beautiful,  Divine  Eumenides  ! 
My  gentle  Dove!" 

"Kindling  the  high-uplifted  stars  at  even 

With  thy  sweet  song, 
The  Angels,  on  the  sapphire  sills  of  Heaven, 

In  rapturous  throng 

Melded  to  milder  meekness  with  the  Seven 
Bright  lamps  of  God  to  glory  given, 
Leant  down  to  hear  thy  voice  roll  up  the  leven, 
Where  thou  art  lying 
Beside  the  beautiful  undying, 
In  the  valley  of  the  passing  of  the  Moon, 
Oh,  Avalon  !  my  son !  my  son  !" 

That  Chivers  could  write  clear,  strong,  nobly 
imaginative  verse,  is  evident  from  the  following 
lines  of  a  poem  on  the  death  of  Poe : 

"Like  the  great  prophet  in  the  desert  lone, 
He  stood  here  waiting  for  the  golden  morning ; 
From  Death's  dark  vale  I  hear  his  distant  moan, 
Coming  to  scourge  the  world  he  was  adorning — _ 
Scorning,  in  glory  now,  their  impotence  of  scorning. 


188         Representative  Southern  Poets 

"And  now  in  apotheosis  divine, 
He  stands  enthroned  upon  the  immortal  mountains 
Of  God's  eternity,  forevermore  to  shine — 
Star-crowned,  all  purified  with  oil-anointings — 
Drinking  with  Ulalume  from  out  the  eternal  fountains." 

In  Mr.  Benton's  very  interesting-  little  book 
the  so-called  "Poe-Chivers  controversy"  is  fully 
entered  into ;  a  brief  summary  of  the  details  will 
suffice  here.  The  charge  of  alleged  borrowing 
by  Poe  from  the  poetry  of  Chivers,  was 
made  by  Chivers  himself.  The  "Raven"  and 
"Annabel  Lee"  were  cited  in  proof  of  their 
assertion.  Friends  of  Chivers  repeated  the 
charge,  and  the  defenders  of  Poe  vigorously 
denied  it,  claiming  that  the  charge  was  absurd. 
The  controversy  was  bitterly  waged  by  both 
sides,  and  column  upon  column  was  devoted  to 
the  contest  in  magazines  and  newspapers.  Poe 
and  Chivers  corresponded  with  each  other; 
among  the  letters  to  Chivers,  now  in  possession 
of  Mr.  Adams,  there  is  one  from  Poe,  detailing 
some  of  his  many  troubles,  and  mentioning  the 
Stylus — the  magazine  which  he  proposed  to 
start.  In  this  letter  Poe  says:  "Please  lend 
me  fifty  dollars  for  three  months.  I  am  so  poor 
and  friendless,  I  am  half  distracted ;  but  I  shall 
be  all  right  when  you  and  I  start  our  magazine." 

Poe  gave  high  praise  in  the  Broadway 
Journal  to  Chivers's  volume  "The  Lost 
Pleiad  and  Other  Poems,"  published  in  1845. 
Chivers's  "Ellen  ^Eyre"  was  published  at  Phil 
adelphia  in  1836. 


Thomas  Holley  Chivers  189 

Olivers  and  his  champions  affirmed  that 
passages  in  verse  and  prose,  quoted  by  them  as 
examples,  were  written  by  Chivers  "long 
anterior"  to  the  parallel  passages  in  Poe's 
writings.  A  friend  on  the  Poe  side  states  that 
Poe  said,  in  speaking  of  the  "Raven,"  "I  pre 
tended  to  no  originality  in  either  the  rhythm  or 
meter"  ;  yet  to  his  friend,  William  Ross  Wallace, 
Poe  said,  alluding  to  the  "Raven,"  "I  have 
just  written  the  greatest  poem  that  ever  was 
written." 

Mr.  Benton  sums  up  the  "Poe-Chivers  con 
troversy"  in  the  following  manner : 

"What  conclusion  must  be  drawn  from  the 
facts  ?  Each  reader  will  be  certain  to  make  his 
own.  No  critic  will  doubt  that  to  Poe  belonged 
the  wonderful  magic  and  mastery  of  this  species 
of  song.  If  to  him  who  says  a  thing  best  the 
thing  belongs,  no  one  will  hesitate  to  decide 
that  Poe  is  entitled  to  the  bays  which  crown 
him.  It  is  a  fact  that,  with  all  the  contemporary 
airing  of  the  subject — it  is  Poe's  celebrity  and 
not  Chivers's  that  remains.  The  finer  instinct 
and  touch  are  what  the  world  takes  account  of. 
Chivers,  except  at  rare  intervals,  did  not 
approach  near  enough  to  the  true  altitude.  He 
put  no  boundary  between  what  was  grotesque 
and  what  was  inspired.  He  was  too  short- 
breathed  to  stay  poised  on  the  heights,  and  was 
but  accidentally  poetic.  But  we  may  accord 
him  a  single  leaf  of  laurel,  if  no  more,  for  what 


190        Representative  Southern  Poets 

he  came  so  near  achieving  in  the  musical  lyric 
of  "Lily  Adair."  Truly  enough  Shakespeare 
says  : 

"  'The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact.' 

Their  mental  and  spiritual  territories  inter- 
blend.  The  same  frenzy  is  the  endowment  of 
each — as  charcoal  is  in  essence  the  diamond. 
As  you  differentiate  and  develop  it,  you  make 
your  titular  distinction  and  place.  But  it  is  not 
a  small  thing  to  have  been  mingled  in  some 
slight  association  with  genius,  and  to  have  some 
credit  you  with  it.  In  an  oriental  poem  the  clay 
pipe  speaks  of  its  contentment,  since  it  cannot 
be  a  rose,  of  having,  by  a  fortunate  association, 
attained  to  some  of  the  vase's  fragrance." 

o 

Speaking  of  Olivers,  Mr.  Benton  says : 
"The  pathetic  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter 
of  his  life  and  work  is  embodied  in  the  one 
word — almost.  He  did  not  quite  touch  the 
high  and  ambitious  empyrean  at  which  he 
aimed.  There  were  great  visions  before  him, 
but  he  could  not  put  them  into  perfectly  clarified 
expression.  At  times  he  nearly  found  the 
vehicle  of  words  that  uplifts,  but  some  lack  of 
needed  impulse  or  finish,  some  want  of  sur 
rounding  atmosphere,  or  some  other  partial 
defect,  tells  the  story  of  defeat.  But  there  is 
room  enough  for  a  hospitable  memory  of  him, 
and  reason  enough  to  honor  his  daring.  We 


Thomas  Holley  Chivers  191 

may  put  him,  at  least,  in  the  Poe  rubric,  and 
recall,  in  exalting  Poe,  a  few  of  the  typical- 
attributes  which  gave  Chivers  his  place  in 
poetry." 

Recently  this  prolific  subject  has  had  another 
interesting  revival,  through  the  new  and  elab 
orate  edition  of  Poe's  works,  edited  by  Pro 
fessor  Harrison  of  Virginia,  in  which  nearly  all 
of  the  letters  that  passed  between  Chivers  and 
Poe  are  published.  In  an  appendix  Professor 
Harrison  discusses  the  "Poe-Cliivers  contro 
versy"  and  asserts  that  the  Georgia  poet's  claims 
are  not  tenable,  and  that,  in  fact,  Poe  was  the 
precursor  of  Chivers.  This  latest  renaissance 
is  again  supplemented  by  the  publication  in  the 
Century  Magazine  for  January  and  February, 
1903,  of  the  Poe-Chivers  papers,  edited  by  Pro 
fessor  George  E.  Woodberry,  and  introduced  as 
being  "the  first  authentic  account  of  one  of 
Poe's  most  interesting  friendships." 

Surely,  with  these  publications,  presenting 
data  so  full  and  minute,  we  may  safely  conclude 
that  this  subject  is  now  closed,  finally,  all  the 
evidence  being  in,  and  the  verdict  left  to  the 
judgment  of  the  public.  Professor  Wood- 
berry's  editing  is  interspersed  with  bright  and 
appropriate  remarks  and  critical  comments  on 
the  matter,  quality,  and  style  of  Chivers's 
poetry,  with  characteristic  quotations,  and  one 
poem,  "The  Lady  Alice,"  is  given  in  full. 


192         Representative  Southern  Poets 

Speaking  of  the  alleged  indebtedness  of  Poe,  in 
his  "Raven,"  to  the  Georgia  poet,  Professor 
Woodberry  says : 

"It  is  not  too  much  to  grant  that  in  the  many 
atmospheric  influences  that  surrounded  the 
germination  of  the  Raven  (and  their  number 
was  a  multitude),  these  two  poems  (Chivers's 
To  Allegra  Florence  in  Heaven'  and  'Urano- 
then')  familiar  to  Poe,  and  certainly  TJrano- 
then,'  had  a  place.  The  two  poets  were  extra 
ordinarily  sympathetic,  but  what  was  intense 
and  firm  in  Poe,  was  diffused  and  liquescent  in 
Chivers,  who  was,  in  truth,  a  kind  of  double  to 
him  in  what  seems  sometimes  a  spiritualistic, 
sometimes  a  grotesque  way.  He  was  indeed  to 
Poe  not  unlike  what  Alcott  was  to  Emerson, 
and  the  comparison  helps  to  clarify  the  confu 
sion  of  their  mutual  relations,  while  it  maintains 
Poe's  mastery  unimpaired." 

Professor  Woodberry  closes  his  article  and 
his  appreciation  of  Chivers  with  these  words : 

"Apart  from  Poe,  Chivers  was  an  interesting 
illustration  of  his  times ;  the  vast,  unfathomable 
ocean  of  American  crudity  was  in  Chivers, 
Alcott,  Whitman,  Mark  Twain — these  four. 
He  was,  without  regard  to  his  poetry,  a  most 
estimable  man  in  his  intellectual  sympathy,  his 
ideals  and  labors,  and  kindly  and  honorable  in 
all  his  relations  with  his  fellows." 


Thomas  Holley  Chivers  193 

Professor  Woodberry's  allusion  to  "the  vast, 
unfathomable  ocean  of  American  crudity"  in 
Chivers,  is  peculiar — does  he  mean  that  this 
"crudity"  is  to  be  found  in  Chivers,  Alcott, 
Whitman  and  Mark  Twain,  or  are  we  to  under 
stand  that  Chivers  was  a  compound  of  Alcott, 
Whitman  and  Mark  Twain  ? 


3).  35.  fields,  JVL 


POE  AND  SOME  OF  HIS  CRITICS 

No  poet  of  great  distinction — certainly  none 
in  America — has  been  more  persistently,  and 
frequently  fiercely,  criticised,  both  for  his  life 
as  a  man,  and  in  regard  to  the  quality  and  value 
of  his  poetry,  than  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  As  to 
the  former — Poe's  moral  transgressions  and 
defects  of  character,  a  word  or  two,  here,  will 
sufHce.  The  mentors  have  fully  done  their 
duty,  long  ago,  in  pointing  out  his  grievous 
sins,  and  in  drawing  the  appropriate  and 
obvious  moral,  deducible  from  such  a  deplorable 
life  as  his  was.  Without  doubt  Poe  sinned 
grievously,  but  also,  most  grievously  did  he 
suffer  for  his  sin;  but  quite  as  deplorable  and 
obnoxious  must  be  held  the  fact  that  some  of  his 
most  distinguished  critics  were  not  satisfied 
with  honest  condemnation,  but  permitted 
uncharitableness  and  even  downright  malice  to 
pervert  and  poison  their  spoken  and  printed 
judgments.  So  virulent,  at  one  time,  was  this 
attack  upon  the  dead  poet,  that,  in  one  specially 
scurrilous  case,  it  caused  a  European  writer  to 
ask  whether  there  was  no  law  in  America  "to 
keep  curs  out  of  the  cemeteries."  Let  us  rather 
say,  with  our  Halleck,  in  his  poem  on  Burns  : 


FACING     PAGE     194 


Poe  and  Some  of  His  Critics          195 

"A  nation's  glory— be  the  rest 

Forgot — she's  canonized  his  mind; 
And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  humankind." 

But  in  regard  to  the  quality  and  value  of 
Poe's  poetry,  there  is  always  ground  for  legiti 
mate  and  candid  expressions  of  opinion.  Such 
criticism  is  always  in  order,  and  worthy  of 
respectful  consideration.  To  one  of  these 
critics  of  Poe's  poetry,  I  wish  to  devote  brief 
attention,  because  he  expresses  a  view  of  it 
which  I  know  to  be  shared  by  some  other  recent 
reviewers  of  Poe's  poetic  work. 

'Toe's  gift,"  says  this  writer,  "flourished 
upon  him  like  a  destructive  flame,  and  the  ashes 
that  it  left  are  like  the  deadly  poison  which 
some  one  has  learned  to  powder  out  of  a  plant- 
root.  As  a  mere  potency,  dissociated  from 
qualities  of  beauty  or  truth,  Poe  must  be  rated 
almost  highest  among  American  poets,  and  high 
among  prosaists;  no  one  else  offers  so  much 
pungency,  such  impetuous  and  frightful  energy, 
crowded  in  such  small  space. 

"We  owe  to  Poe  the  first  agile  and  deter 
mined  movement  of  criticism  in  this  country, 
and,  though  it  was  a  startling-  dexterity,  with  but 
little  depth,  which  winged  his  censorial  shafts, 
he  was  excellently  fitted  for  the  critic's  office 
in  one  way,  because  he  knew  positively  what 
standards  he  meant  to  judge  by,  and  kept  up 
an  inflexible  hostility  to  any  offense  against 
them.  He  had  an  acute  instinct  in  matters  of 


196        Representative  Southern  Poets 

literary  form ;  it  amounted,  indeed,  to  a  passion, 
as  all  his  instincts  and  perceptions  did ;  he  had 
also  the  knack  of  finding  reasons,  good  or  bad, 
for  his  opinions,  and  of  stating  them  well. 

"Whatever  the  cause,  his  brain  had  a  rift  of 
ruin  in  it  at  the  start.  For  him  there  was 
always  'a.  demon  in  the  sky' ;  and,  though  he 
kept  a  delicate  touch,  that  stole  a  new  grace 
from  classic  antiquity,  it  was  the  frangibility, 
the  quick  decay,  the  fall  of  beautiful  things  that 
excited  him." 

On  the  surface  this  criticism  appears  to  be 
blandly  conservative  and  plausible,  but  when 
carefully  analyzed  it  will  be  found  to  have  the 
same  fault  which  this  critic  charges  against 
Poe's  method  of  criticism — it  has  but  little 
depth.  For  instance,  I  cannot  see  any  force  in 
the  distinction  this  critic  makes  between  Poe's 
potency  and  his  poetry.  He  says  he  would  rate 
him  almost  highest  among  American  poets 
merely  as  a  "potency,"  and  dissociated  from 
qualities  of  beauty  or  truth,  whereas,  as  a  matter 
of  common  sense  it  follows,  that  to  dissociate 
Poe  from  the  qualities  of  beauty  or  truth,  which 
characterize  his  poetry,  is  to  deprive  him  of  his 
potency  altogether,  and  make  him  as  flabby  as 
a  jelly-fish.  I  know  of  no  other  potency  in 
Poe  except  that  which  is  derived  from  the 
charmful  beauty,  the  fine  inspiration  of  his 
poetry;  and  if,  as  his  critic  maintains,  Poe's 
potency  entitles  him  to  be  rated  "almost  highest 


Poe  and  Some  of  His  Critics          197 

among  American  poets,"  it  is  simply  because 
his  potency  and  his  poetry  are  synonymous. 

To  me  the  most  remarkable  element  of  Poe's 
poetry  seems  to  be  the  poet's  almost  idolatrous 
worship  of  Beauty — of  Beauty  manifesting 
itself  not  only  in  exquisite  material  forms,  but 
also  in  intangible,  supernatural  and  spiritual 
revelations.  In  this,  in  my  opinion,  lies  his 
finest,  his  most  subtle  strength;  in  this,  and 
through  this,  he  exercises  his  utmost  potency. 

To  Poe,  Beauty  was  Truth.  To  him  noth 
ing  was  essentially  true  which,  in  form  and 
spirit,  did  not  reach  the  standard  of  his  ideal 
conception  of  the  Beautiful. 

The  durability  of  his  fame  as  an  artist  in 
poetry,  the  cause  of  that  unique  excellence,  the 
spirit  of  originality  which  breathes  from  his 
writings  are  largely  due,  I  think,  to  Poe's  mar 
velous  idiosyncrasy  concerning  Beauty,  and  his 
peculiar  belief  in  Truth  as  the  essence  of  Beauty. 
Poe  himself  has  asserted  his  profound  reverence 
for  the  True,  and  he  insists  that  it  is  the  office 
of  Taste  to  inform  us  of  the  Beautiful,  that  we 
may  wage  war  against  Vice  on  the  ground  of 
her  deformity,  her  opposition  to  that  which  is 
harmonious,  in  a  word,  to  Beauty.  In  his 
famous  essay  on  "The  Poetic  Principle,"  Poe 
says: 

"He  who  shall  simply  sing,  with  however 
glowing  enthusiasm,  or  without  however  vivid 
a  truth  of  description  of  the  sights,  and  sounds, 


198        Representative  Southern  Poets 

and  odors,  and  colors,  and  sentiments,  which 
greet  him  in  common  with  all  mankind — he,  I 
say,  has  failed  to  prove  his  divine  title.  There 
is  still  a  something  in  the  distance  which  he  has 
been  unable  to  attain.  We  have  still  a  thirst 
unquenchable,  to  allay  which  he  has  not  shown 
us  the  crystal  springs.  This  thirst  belongs  to 
the  immortality  of  Man.  It  is  at  once  a  conse 
quence  and  an  indication  of  his  perennial  exist 
ence.  It  is  the  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star. 
It  is  no  more  appreciation  of  the  Beauty  before 
us — but  a  wild  effort  to  reach  the  Beauty  above. 

"Inspired  by  an  ecstatic  prescience  of  the 
glories  beyond  the  grave,  we  struggle  by  multi 
form  combinations  among  the  things  and 
thoughts  of  Time,  to  attain  a  portion  of  that 
Loveliness,  whose  very  elements,  perhaps, 
appertain  to  eternity  alone.  And  thus,  when 
by  Poetry,  or  when  by  Music — the  most  entran 
cing  of  the  poetic  moods — we  find  ourselves 
melted  into  tears — we  weep  then,  not  as  the 
Abbot  Gravina  supposes,  through  excess  of 
pleasure,  but  through  a  certain  petulant,  im 
patient  sorrow  at  our  inability  to  grasp  now, 
wholly,  here  on  earth,  at  once  and  forever,  those 
divine  and  rapturous  joys,  of  which  through 
the  poem,  or  through  the  music,  we  attain  to 
but  brief  and  indeterminate  glimpses. 

"The  struggle  to  apprehend  the  supernal 
Loveliness — this  struggle,  on  the  part  of  souls 
fittingly  constituted — has  given  to  the  world 


Poe  and  Some  of  His  Critics          199 

all  that  which  it  (the  world)  has  ever  been 
enabled  at  once  to  understand  and  to  feel  as 
poetic." 

And  in  another  place  he  defines  the  poetry  of 
words  as  the  "rhythmical  creation  of  Beauty." 

To  this  ideal  of  his  Poe  adhered  loyally,  and 
the  quickening  spirit  of  it  is  felt,  in  its  fullest 
power,  in  his  splendid,  soul-haunting  Raven, 
and  in  others  of  his  best  poems.  The  idea  of 
dissociating  this  worship  of  esthetic  Beauty, 
this  adoration  of  the  holiness  of  Beauty  and  of 
the  truth  of  Beauty,  from  the  poetic  potency 
of  Poe,  seems  to  my  mind  a  preposterous 
proposition. 

That  Poe's  gift  "flourished  upon  him  like  a 
destructive  flame,"  is,  unfortunately,  as  true  of 
him  as  it  is  and  has  been  true  of  many  who 
possess  the  fatal  gift  of  genius,  and  who,  for 
various  reasons,  and  through  the  power  of  evil 
influences,  do  not  rule  their  spirits  wisely  and 
well.  It  is  one  of  the  deplorable  aspects  of 
genius,  and  the  history  of  the  world  is  full  of 
instances  of  its  misconduct  and  moral  aberra 
tions.  But  in  Poe's  case,  I  deny  that  "the  ashes 
it  left  are  like  a  deadly  poison."  If  the  works 
left  by  Poe  are  ashes,  they  are  ashes  of  glory, 
and  the  spark  of  genius  still  lives,  and  will  for 
ever  live,  in  them.  His  gift  harmed  no  one  but 
himself ;  nor  has  he  left  us  a  line  which  any  one 
can,  consistently  and  honestly,  declare  contains 
a  deadly  poison.  I  feel  sure  that,  for  all  time, 


200         Representative  Southern  Poets 

Poe  will  rank  among  the  eminent  poets  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  and  as  the  most  original, 
entrancingly  lyrical  of  American  poets. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

We  will  not  wound  his  spirit,  by  reciting 
The  sins  and  errors  of  his  earthly  ways, 

Whose  Upas  shadows  still  his  name  are  blighting, 
Nor  stain  with  Slander's  spume  his  poet-bays ; 

"No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Nor  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God." 

Let  Pharisees — the  "unco  guid"  and  pious, 

Hurl  harsh  anathemas  upon  his  head, 
And  ghoulish  critics,  kin  to  Ananias, 

Revile  the  memory  of  the  laureled  dead ; 

A  nobler  task  be  ours ;  a  theme  more  pleasing, 
With  gentler  feelings  shall  our  hearts  inspire ; 

Let  us  from  Discord's  bonds  our  minds  releasing, 
Feel  but  the  thraldom  of  his  magic  lyre. 

From  shadowy  shores  of  Pluto's  realm  infernal, 
The  Raven  comes  and  croaks  his  "nevermore"! 

And  robed  in  light  and  loveliness  supernal, 

The  Shade  appears,  whom  angels  name  "Lenore." 

For  us,  again  the  poet's  fancy  peoples 
With  phantom  forms,  the  horror-haunted  dells, 

Or  bids  the  spirits  dwelling  in  the  steeples, 
Pour  golden  floods  of  music  from  the  bells. 

With  him  we  roam,  in  mood  sedate  and  sober, 
The  woods,  beneath  October's  skies  of  gloom, 

And  at  a  tomb,  "by  the  dark  tarn  of  Auber," 
Hear  Psyche  read  the  legend,  "Ulalume." 


Poe  and  Some  of  His  Critics  201 

Once  more  we  see  the  lurid  splendors,  gleaming 
From  the  "strange  city"  which  Death's  own  shall  be ; 

Lie  in  the  grave  with  him,  of  "Annie"  dreaming, 
Or  her  who  sleepeth  "by  the  sounding  sea." 

Thus  moved,  and  guided  by  this  mighty  master, 
Our  souls  enthralled  by  his  resistless  will, 

Through  scenes  of  mystic  glory  or  disaster, 
We  mount  with  him  the  Muses'  sacred  hill, 

Where  what  was  godlike  in  him,  and  which  never 
Can  be  denied  him  now,  nor  soiled  with  shame — 

His  glorious  genius — has  been  shrined  forever, 
In  the  white  temple  of  eternal  fame. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


>•      20Nov'58J  Si 

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1 

*£  1j     V 
r>  i*"i  •  1  1  rx    •    ML. 

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tTGC  D  LD 

r^  r~  j*i        A 

DEC    6  1961 

%!i.V,%i'BIM              u^SSggSSU. 

YC  52979 


